


The Realization of Self

by Satan (CherryBones)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: AUGH, Alternate Universe - GTA, BUT I HAVEN'T USED THEIR NAMES IN THE FIC YET, END GAME OT6, I HAVE SO MANY CHARACTERS I WANT TO PUT IN THE TAGS, M/M, REWRITTEN: NOW WITH MORE LIL J, Undercover AU, V2, be aware that the rating and tags will change as the fic goes along, so many background ships, so many side characters, some background megsay and risingluna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 60,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4717373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBones/pseuds/Satan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James, now Ryan, has one simple job. Infiltrate the Fake AH Crew and take them down. He doesn't expect to change the way he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this is being rewritten! To those of you who didn't know of this story before its one year anniversary, this was a fic that was originally written with Ray because when it started, more precisely on September 3rd, 2015, Jeremy had yet to become part of the main six and worm his way into my dumb heart and Ray had yet to really catch my interest as a streamer and make it clear multiple times that he'd moved forward with his life, away from RT. As time went on it became more and more difficult to write Ray until eventually this fic went to an ages long hiatus because I simply _couldn't_ write Ray properly in my mind anymore without feeling uncomfortable. So I decided to rewrite the fic, taking out Ray and entering Lil J in his place.  
>  Be aware that this is not a copy and paste rewrite! I adore Jeremy too much to do something like that. Instead this is a dynamic rewrite of the original eight chapters plus what comes after, with other changes such as the change of tense from past to present, the lengthening and/or combining of chapters, the update of characters to the best of my abilities, etc. I hope people enjoy it as much as the original, if not more, but even so if people want them, the link to the old chapters that are still up on tumblr is at the bottom of the chapter.  
> Thank you for reading! <3  
> Happy one year anniversary of ROS!

Ryan was not always Ryan. Once he was James, broad and tall and dressed in a uniform of blue but not what most would expect from such a sight. When out of the uniform, everything about him seemed to speak of a sensible nine-to-five job, perhaps a house in a nice suburb with a white picket fence and a spouse and children, from his terrible shoes to his too-small glasses. But instead of all the things a smart person would have, James instead worked as a cop, stationed in the heart of the most violent city in the United States, where blood ran through the streets as common as water and death choked the air like smoke. James worked as an officer for the Los Santos Police Department. 

Despite the situation, James’s personality much suited the image he presented, sweet and gentle with a tiny little ficus bonsai that sat on his desk, treated much like how one would treat a young child or a pet. Adored, that would be the word for that plant. Incorruptible would be the word for James. But there is not truly such thing as incorruptible. Darkness seeps out and drips down onto the streets, pulsating and sharp as a blade, almost living. Deceit catches the ankles of innocent passersby, burrowing deep into flesh to bind the heart and bind the soul, leaving shadows in its wake.

James’s story begins long ago, as a child laughing and running through a sun-drenched landscape of rural Georgia, fearless and gleeful, surrounded by cloudless beauty that did not last, soon replaced with the choked sky and grimy streets of Los Santos, a whole new world for the fearless child who was soon forced to learn, to survive like every other young creature who lived in the city limits did. He never once stepped off the path though, not like so many he knew who turned easily to crime and death and violence. His gaze stayed forward, upwards, innocent and arguably naive, locking onto the slowly dying precincts, small and weak despite having the shiny rotted coating of the rest of the city, the last twitching remains of an explosion that threatened to consume the city whole in its darkness. He said his oath with a smile, so very young, and dressed in his blues even as his mother begged him not to. She fretted for her child until the day of her death, old and frail and sick, lying in bed begging her boy to be good and careful without a single inkling of the man he would become. He held her hand and promised and smiled for her until her final breath escaped her body, climbing into the sky, in his mind, to once again be with his father. He was back in the precinct the next day, giving people that same smile when they asked if he was okay.

People started to notice his stranger traits more after that, watching him closely to make sure he was okay. Odd jokes, the talking to his ficus, the easy way he played the knife game, humming to himself as he did so, a pencil chopping inbetween his splayed fingers without the tiniest bit of harm coming to him. Strange, yes, but sweet and likable enough that these were just quirks, the peculiar traits that make up each human being individually. An average, fairly well-adjusted human being. One that everyone who met him expected to one day wise up and leave the bloody streets and dead friends behind for somewhere better, brighter and cleaner and safer. And perhaps he might have, in some other world, in some other time, had the Fake AH Crew never existed. 

Instead, fate did what she does best, and turned everything on its head.

This is not the story of that man, of James, of the sweet and strange police officer. This is not the story of the boy in the fields of Georgia. This is a story of blood and violence and laughter and love. This is a story of the realization of self.

This is the story of the man who became the Vagabond.

-

The beginning of the end comes on a blazing hot day in mid-July, the sun baking the world into a harsh orange haze, caking those who dare step outside in sweat and grime. The upsides to such a ridiculously hot day exist of course, namely the fact that hardly any criminals are willing to risk the heat outside, and, rather notably, none of the smart ones. This singular reality attributes to the fact that nearly every single cop that can be is hiding away in their respective precinct, the air conditioning blasting hard enough to turn some very remote places of the buildings into cold spots, chilled enough to make the air freeze. James watches the others in amusement as they hustle through the doors, sighing out relief as the roasting heat is replaced by a pleasant cool, some shivering with the difference. He smiles at the few that glance towards the desks, his fingertips trailing absently over the leaves of his twisty little plant as he leans back against the front of his desk, avoiding paperwork with all the grace of someone who’s gotten quite good at what he does. When so many others are avoiding their duties, he sees no point to exert himself performing his, especially when he’s the one usually doing the most work anyways. Leftover work can be done on a different day, preferably one far in the future, when he’s similarly bored but with much less excuse not to do it. He knows that dithering about will only lead to more procedure, more propped up nonsense about protocol and paperwork, but at this exact moment he’s rather enjoying his little rebellion.

A throat clearing to his right drags his attention from his thoughts, flashing a shyly apologetic smile at the officer interrupting him. She smiles soothingly when she sees that he thinks he may be in trouble.

“Captain wants to see you, I think it’s something about a new assignment or something. He wouldn’t give me any more details so you’re going to have to go check yourself.”

He gives his thanks, pushing away from his desk and working his way through the mild congestion about the desks to get to the office in the back. James knocks politely, waiting for the noncommittal grunt that means he can enter. The man sitting behind the desk inside is younger than James, easily by five or more years, but there is grey starting to edge in at his temples, stress from aggressively climbing the ranks and then being left with the corrupt twisted mess all the others before him had left behind. James tries really hard not to find the sight of the early grey funny, barely managing to school his expression down to a neutral tone before the Captain looks up.

“Haywood, sit down.”

James obeys, dropping down into one of the uncomfortable chairs that sit across from the Captain’s old wood desk. The file that the Captain was flipping through is turned to face him and James recognizes the face on the picture clipped to his front as his. His file.

“You were in theater right? It says you’ve got a minor in it.”

“Yeah, uh, yes sir…?”

“How good were you?”

The question startles him for a second and he fidgets, unsure of what the right answer is.

“Not...Not terrible sir. I was the lead once or twice but I mostly stayed backstage.”

For a second the Captain just stares at him, eyes too sharp for his young age boring into James’s skull, like he can pluck out every little scrap of information he wants to know. It makes him want to squirm, to flee. Finally though, the younger man speaks, his tone one of brutal honesty.

“We need an undercover agent to infiltrate the Fake AH Crew, climb the ranks as quickly as possible, and bring them down. You’re now officially that agent, congratulations Haywood.”

Silence pervades the room for a minute after that, James staring right back at the Captain in utter disbelief, his brain trying to process this sudden dump of information directly into his cranium. He knows the Fake AH Crew of course, everyone does. Collectively the main five of them had put more bodies in the morgue than anyone else he could remember in recent history. They ran nearly every single illegal business in town and brutally put down anyone who tried to go up against them. Vagos, Ballas, hell even the Families, no one survived against their onslaught. For ages James had found something strangely beautiful about them, about the amount of chaos they caused on a near-weekly basis, on how quickly they’d risen to rule the city and now here he is, being told to go out and  _ become them _ . It’s all a little much for him to handle.

“I-I….I’m sorry sir? I don’t...I don’t understand. I’ve never been undercover before, I can’t-”

“You can and you will, that’s just the short of it Haywood. We’re using you because you have that theater background, you know how to act and bullshit your way through shit and that’s a damn better headstart on deep cover than most of the idiots out there. We’re using you  _ because _ you’ve never been undercover before. You’re a face they won’t have seen, won’t recognize as anyone special. And I’ve had enough people digging into you to know that you’re probably the least corrupt fucker in this precinct, so get up out of that seat and go talk to Dunkleman. She’s already getting an identity set up for you and she’ll be figuring out who the hell you talk to and send updates to. We aren’t sending you in blind, you’ll have help. You’re dismissed.”

With that he turns away, already working on something else. James nods even though he can’t see it, stunned as he gets to his feet and stumbles his way over to Barb’s desk, slumping down into the seat beside her. She glances up from her computer, fingers still tapping away as she winces in sympathy.

“Captain wasn’t very soft about letting you know huh? Sorry bud, I would’ve told you but he didn’t tell me  _ who  _ I was working up this profile for until this morning.”

He flashes her a weak smile, not moving an inch.

“I appreciate the sympathy. What do I do to help?”

“Help me fill out the edges, make it your own and shit.”

“Just like a role in theater.”

“Your most important act yet big guy.”

And so they begin, working together to bring the Vagabond to life, a ruthless mercenary who’s as terrifying as he is mysterious, almost nothing known about him, not even his face. Enough wiggle room for James to work with, but with enough meat for him to be believable. James smiles his way through coming up with the little things, doing his best to hide from Barbara that maybe these little things have a bit more in common with him than they probably should. When she asks him for a name he wants to go by for the Vagabond’s legal name he decides on Ryan, his middle name, easy enough to respond to, especially with how it will hardly be the first time others have called him by it instead of James. When they have it finished she sends it off to a handful of people, theoretically moles in the system, telling James as she continues to type away that giving the name a little while will let it gain ground, let the stories and the rumors stick to the persona like fly paper. Let word that the Vagabond will soon be in town spread like hooks out into the seedy underground of their rotten town. By the end of it all he’s resting his head on her desk, exhausted with how overwhelming this all is.

“You alive there James?”

“Sorta?”

“Well the next part is the fun part. You gotta go out and  _ make  _ the Vagabond.  Make him seem all scary and mercenary-like and shit. Find a costume, like in theater. My suggestion is go down to Suburban and check out the jackets they have on sale, look for something that isn’t stupidly expensive. Maybe go down to the pier and look at the masks if you don’t want them seeing your face? Up to you but y’know what they say, image is everything.”

He takes her advice over the next few days, dropping by a Suburban as he drives home the next day. The young girl behind the counter is nice enough to point him towards the jackets and he is eternally grateful to find one that fits, a black and blue thing that makes him look far more intimidating than he feels. He snags some slimmer darker jeans as he goes to pay for it as well, figuring he may as well make up for how often other folks in his life have teased him for his awful sense in pants. After that he decides on a pair of old boots he bought years ago, thanking every single deity he can think of when he finds they still fit just fine. The mask, the mask is something he doesn’t really expect to happen, isn’t even planning on despite Barb’s suggestion of it. But then he’s wandering down the road off the beach, trying to calm his mind for the road ahead, when he passes Vespucci masks and  _ it  _ catches his eye, intimidating and dark. Almost without his consent his body approaches the shelf it sits upon, fingers reaching out to touch the firm rubber. Maybe Barb was right, maybe a mask would be good. The salesman grins when he buys it, grins even wider when he manages to convince a still slightly dazed James into buying some facepaint too. Both items wind up in an inconspicuous plastic bag that James tosses into the trunk of his sensible little car with possibly a bit more love than he means to.

When he gets home he tries on the whole ensemble, finding that it fits like a glove, feeling almost like more than just a costume. In the mirror, behind the mask, he looks like he could be a ruthless mercenary. When he notices that a fair portion of his cheekbones can be seen through the eyeholes, James breaks out the facepaints, playing around with them until he finds a design he likes, black and red and white hiding his face away even more. The pictures he sends to Barb of the whole thing receive a thumbs-up and a shitty pun, so he considers it a relative success.

It takes him a while to remember to take it off.

Not long after, it’s time for him to play his part. His hands shake as he hangs his uniform up in his locker, leaving Barb instructions on how to care for his little ficus and accepting the number for person he’ll be in contact with the most, someone named Kdin, in return. He struggles a little bit in figuring out how to get into the Zentorno that’s been taken from the impound lot and repainted a pitch black, leaving his little car in its place. The bag with guns and money taken from evidence goes in the seat behind him, a few of the people who know about his upcoming task waving him goodbye and good luck. He doubts what he’s been given is protocol, or barely legal if he’s being honest, but the crew he’s being sent to take down isn’t exactly protocol either. James drives the unfamiliar car back to his apartment complex, musing at all the empty apartments around his that perhaps it was a good thing he never took anyone’s advice on moving out, on finding somewhere better suited for a cop. None of the people left on his floor are the type to go nosing about.

James doesn’t think about how easy it is to strip away his old clothes and pull his new identity from the drawer it’s been given, doesn’t think about how natural it feels to discard his old self and put on this new self. How the mask feels like a second skin. He smiles at his reflection. He looks  _ scary. _

The thought fills him with a warmth he doesn’t bother to think about. His mind brushes it aside as the feelings that come with a new role, excitement and nervousness, just like college. Except he isn’t nervous. The man in the mask feels far from nervous as he picks up his bag again and heads for the door once more.

The Vagabond is born. 

And with his birth, the herald’s cry for the death of James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna reread the old chapters for whatever reason? You can read them [here!](http://satansprettyprose.tumblr.com/tagged/The-Realization-of-Self-v1/chrono)


	2. Chapter 2

The first article about the Vagabond has spread misinformation across newspapers and blogs and most other forms of written media days before James steps out into the street, backing up the whispers of the mercenary coming to town with printed word. This first work of fiction was written by one Jon Risinger, more of a filler piece than anything, less than half a page and mostly just about those rumors and some of his ‘escapades’, mostly all things that Barb and James had stuck together, so most likely it was created using things handed to him in a folder or something equally outdated and useless. The interesting thing is that there is a picture in the right-hand corner at the top of the article that looks vaguely like someone in the outfit Ryan created, wielding an automatic weapon, though it’s too blurry to tell for sure, a picture apparently taken hurriedly from someone’s phone. He’s genuinely curious as to how they made it, and if there are more supposed pictures of the Vagabond now circulating through the web and print media. 

James’s met Jon once or twice before, usually during press conferences or when he was hanging around the precinct writing fluff pieces in attempts to curry favor in the public eye for the police force. When James first met him he was a nice kid, cute with bright-eyes and a hopeful smile. By the last time he saw him, he was starting to look tired, his hair longer, scruff starting to grow in. Jon doesn’t belong in Los Santos, as far as James is concerned, but then again people keep telling him that, so maybe Jon’ll be fine after all. He clearly knows what he’s doing, as other news places started to pick up on the rumors and what not as well, suffusing ‘warnings’ throughout the city that the Vagabond will soon arrive.

His new phone, utterly untraceable according to Barb, buzzes as he sits in the darkness of his zippy new car, tucked into a dark alley in the heart of the city, the vehicle blending into the shadows with ease. A quick glance reveals the number to be that of his contact, Barb’s techie Kdin, and the text itself to be an address, with a quick description of the place being ‘the best bar for bad business’. James chuckles, looking around at the empty streets surrounding his hideaway before pulling the mask off so he can see better in the dark, his gloved hands nearly blending into the night. 

Working quickly he opens up the bag full of weaponry and money, stashing a wad or so into the inside pocket of his jacket before picking through the guns, looking for the ones that’ll be easiest to conceal. It’s easy to hide the ones he chooses away, setting the holsters for them as close to his body as he can before zipping his jacket back up, the bulk of it hiding anything he might have beneath. For extra measure he sticks a pocket-sized pistol into the side of his boot and digs out a scary-looking knife from the bottom of the bag, shifting a little so he can strap it to his thigh and musing that he’s glad no one can see him squirming around in his car getting ready, face painted white and red and black.  Checking to make sure he doesn’t have something stupid like his wallet on his person, he slips the mask of the Vagabond back onto his face. It settles his nerves, calms him down as the engine turns over and he roars out of the alley and down the road, his heart jolting into his throat as he glances at the speed limit as it flashes past, some twenty miles below what he’s going. It’s exhilarating, the perfect thing to set the mood as he blows through intersections and demolishes no less than five traffic laws for the first time in his life. 

James, Ryan, barely manages to avoid hitting another car as he careens into the parking lot of the bar, his heart pounding in his chest, the purr of the engine dying down as he pulls out the keys and shoves them into his pocket, staring up at the dim sign of the bar. Taking a deep breath to calm his jittery nerves, he shoves his covered hands into his pockets, straightens his shoulders, and strides confidently into the bar, thinking of the lead role of a play, full of pride and poise as he parades onto the stage.

It’s like a spaghetti western as the door slams shut behind him, the whole bar falling silent and all eyes turning to him. Internally James wants to cringe, tuck into himself a little, make himself small and unintimidating, but instead the Vagabond glares down those that stare at him, icy blue matching eyes of various sort, all turning away under the chill of it. Once all the eyes in his line of sight have looked away he marches through them, the crowd parting to allow him passage. Apparently his ‘reputation’ has long since preceded him, the black skull protecting his face drawing eyes even after he quells them with his gaze, whispers slowly turning cacophonous as he finds a dim booth in the back and settles in. The shadows give him an edge, allow him to lean back against the cushions of the seat and relax, arms crossed across his chest and listening to the whispers as they catch and snag on each other.

“Do y’really think he’s killed everyone who took him for a job?”

“I heard it was only anyone who tried to double-cross him. And anyone who ever associated with them.”

“Bet there’s nothing under that mask, bet there’s just like some fucked up Frankenstein shit where his face got melted off or something.”

“He’s a really sick fuck. Put some asshole in a hole until he rotted, called him nothing but Edgar until he fucking keeled. Then he put some different asshole in the hole and did the same.”

Edgar, he thinks, is a very nice name.

Slowly, very slowly, the whispers about him die back into regular bar chatter. The Vagabond takes a breath in through his nose, oddly comforted by the smell of rubber and leather that cloaks his person like a guise. Apparently the rumors have already started to hit ridiculous, probably a good thing in the long run, adding to his mysteriousness. His fingers twitch nervously, eager for something to mess with, and one of the men nearby freezes, eyes latched onto the digits, taking his anxious movements for something much more sinister. He calms his hands, unfolds his arms, waits until the man’s eyes look up to his before reaching down to slip the knife from the sheath on his thigh, placing it oh so slowly on the table. The man swallows, turns his gaze away and quickly leaves. Ryan grins in his mask, relaxes back, one hand still holding the knife against the surface.

After a few hours, he leaves, as silent as when he arrived.

The next night he doesn’t even take his time, he strides through, sits in his booth, his hand already playing with the sheath on his thigh. They know why he’s here now, they can put the pieces together. He’s waiting, watching, for what they don’t quite know but they know there is something he wants.

They find out when one of the patrons is unlucky enough to step within his range, his arm suddenly snapping out to wrap around the man’s arm, as strong and unwielding as iron.

“You.”

His voice comes out as a growl, the poor man’s face turning deathly pale as the Vagabond’s gaze fixes on him. In the back of his mind he realizes he recognizes the patron, an arsonist with a penchant for family homes in quiet neighborhoods. He’s perhaps a little rougher than he needs to be as he drags the man into the booth across from him, in full view of the rest of the bar, switching his grip to pin the patron’s hand to the table, fingers spread wide. Ryan can feel the trembling beneath his hold, revels in it until it feels like his core is rumbling in sync, full of toxic energy threatening to bring him crashing down. With his other hand he raises the knife, sets it in the gap between the ring and middle fingers of the trapped hand.

“You’re going to play a game with me. Simple question, simple answer. Answer right, you keep your hand in once piece. Dick around and I’ll show you what happens when people annoy me. First question: who’s the highest bidder in this fucking trash pit of a city?”

The man stammers, glancing away from him to the now-silent bar, everyone watching their exchange. The Vagabond growls low, the sound giving the trapped man just enough time to realize and open his mouth to protest before the knife pulled up and slammed back down, burying in the center of his hand. His protest turns into a pained scream.

“Wrong answer, try again.”

Blood spurts up as he pulls the knife out, tapping it down in the next gap of fingers, then the next and the next, slow and threatening as the man whimpers his way through the answers he can give, mostly things that James personally already knew, but things that a newcomer might not, a good baseline to begin from. When he finally releases the man he flees, clutching his injured hand, and the Vagabond looks out over the other patrons. They all know what he’s looking for now, a job with the most money behind it, a ruthless mercenary full of enough of an underhanded personality to back some of the rumors about him. A true criminal.

No one comes near his booth for the rest of the night.

It hits him when he gets home, like a freight train crashing through his little apartment and slamming into him, dressed down to his jeans and undershirt, facepaint partially wiped away. He, for the lack of a better term,  _ tortured someone.  _ It hadn’t even been something he’d thought about. He’d  _ enjoyed _ making the man scream with terror and pain, had reveled in it.

The energy flows out of James like a breath, sending him slumping down onto the floor of his bathroom, trying to process this sudden onslaught of emotions. Anything is okay as long as it ends in the capture and arrest of the Fake AH Crew right? It has to be. Everyone makes difficult calls in the line of duty, difficult calls that maybe are a bit easier than they should be. Acting like a bad guy doesn’t make him a bad guy right? Right. He takes a few more deep breaths before standing back up and cleaning himself off, preparing to turn in for the night. James forgets that the knife is still dirty with the drying blood of a terrified man.

He returns to the bar the next night and the next, sitting in his booth, watching as everyone else continues to keep their distance from him.  He spends the nights listening to the murmur of the crowd, populated with rumors now twice as detailed, twice as convoluted, all building him up to be the honorless ‘mad mercenary’ that they want him to be. The waitstaff watch him from a distance, waiting to see if he’ll call anyone to take his order, but Ryan doesn’t want anyone to see him mess with the mask. Instead he leans back again, shuts his eyes, and listens to the sounds. Every now and then he opens his eyes again, scanning the crowd before relaxing back yet again.

Two days later a gaggle of mismatched living tumbles through the door to the bar, nearly knocking the door off its hinges as they burst through, three younger, two older behind. There’s no mistaking who they are, not if the way that the bar practically empties for them says anything, like the patrons parting the way for the Vagabond times twelve. The group head in a beeline straight for his booth, a man in a pressed tuxedo slipping into the seat across from him, tattoos visible under his sleeves as he shifts closer, stares into Ryan’s icy blues without a hint of fear. His presence feels like a drug, intoxicating, making Ryan feel the need to prove himself, to bow to his power. Instead he returns the man’s gaze with the most unimpressed expression he can manage, body language purposefully stuck at alert but relaxed. The other four of the group fan out a little bit, hiding the booth from the view of others with their bodies. The man before the Vagabond flashes him a smile with too many teeth, too proud and arrogant in his control.

“I’m Geoff Ramsey, I hear you’re looking for a job.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is over 800 words longer than the original. I'm proud of that.

There is no reaction from the Vagabond. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t even so much as flinch. There’s no sign of recognition in his eyes and why should there be? He’s ‘new’ in town, and only a few people in the precinct actually knew the names of the people on the Fake AH Crew. Finally he sighs, the eyebrow raise practically visible through the rubber of the mask.

“And?”

It’s funny to watch Ramsey huff, annoyed at the lack of response, at the fact that someone in the criminal underground has no clue who he is. Perhaps at the implication that his reign of terror stretches no further than the city limits of Los Santos, that once this place has bled dry there will be nothing left, no title, no name, no fame. Ramsey straightens his back, pulls himself up higher, above the relaxing Vagabond. Ryan snorts openly at that, derisive and cruel. Ramsey fumes. Ryan’s fairly certain one of the others blocking them in chuckles under their breath.

“You were looking for us, you were looking for the Fakes, we’re here.”

His sharp grin is visible in the corners of his eyes as he stares Ramsey down. He leans forward, rests his hands on the table. The knife glistens in its holster, freshly clean, making one of the others tense out of the corner of his eye. They know he’s armed, he knows they’re armed. Stalemate. To his credit, Ramsey doesn’t flinch.

“I’m just looking for the highest bidder, not sure you’re it. From what I’ve heard plenty of people would like to see the Fake AH Crew go down.”

Something sharpens like steel in Ramsey’s gaze, something that belies the sleepy blustering from before and tells more of the man that’s managed to crush every gang, every upstart and traitor, under his heel. His eyes narrow, like he can pierce the veil of the mask to see the man beneath.

“Is that a threat?”

Somewhere deep inside James feels something like a spark of fear, of genuine terror at the threat this man presents, but instead he leans back into his seat, spreading his arms across the back of it with a chuckle, like they all _amuse_ him, mice in a maze instead of five of the deadliest men in Los Santos. One of the ones to their side steps forward, a flash of leather jacket in the corner of the Vagabond’s eye as he stares down the king on his ivory tower. He knows it’s coming, braces for the impact a second before the fist connects with his face. He lets his head roll with it, a laugh twice as loud bursting from his chest as he cracks his neck, turns his face to look up at his attacker. The redhead, young but not the youngest, his face boyish and laden with untapped fury bubbling just below the surface, on edge. Ryan grins, his veins singing with the burst of pain that accompanies it. He knows his eyes must look wild, the kid just barely holding his ground.

“That the best you got kid? I’ve been hit by wind harder than that.”

The fury boils, breaks, the fist coming up again before Ramsey shouts, _Michael,_ that’s the kid’s name, the others reaching forward to stop him. Ryan lets his gaze match with the kid’s again, amused and unhinged, killing some of the anger in his eyes in the face of the deadly glee found there, a challenge for him to do it again. When he backs down, knowing he can’t fight against the others _and_ Ryan, the Vagabond turns his gaze back to Ramsey, still as manic, still as volatile. He revels in how Ramsey tenses noticeably.

“Congrats Ramsey, it wasn’t a threat before but it is now. My price just doubled.”

Ramsey’s smart enough to swallow his pride and launch into the basic outline of a job, something simple, something they clearly don’t need another man for. A test run, to see if the Vagabond can still play nice despite all this. He can feel the air around them tense every single time he moves, the bodies still standing as taut as wires. All but the other eldest, the big burly man in the terrible shirt, let go of the kid, the big one still holding onto his arm hard enough to probably hurt. It gives them away as nervous, put on edge by him even more now, knowing, as far as they can tell, that he’s a risk that they’d probably prefer to have under their belt versus against it. Bad actors, all of them, fighting to keep themselves from lashing out, from doing something they might regret. One of them, still wearing his sunglasses despite being indoors, makes a face when he thinks Ryan isn’t looking.

Absently, he thinks he might owe Barb a fruit basket. Maybe Kdin, maybe Jon. Everyone who helped him build up such a persona, something he can bury himself in and wear like armor. With the mask on it’s easy to shove aside the fear and replace it with ferality, with snide arrogance, just one of the deadly hidden mercenaries in the world, breezing through town looking for his next pay without a care to the blood he spills. He listens vaguely to Ramsey, his own thoughts taking precedent more than once. It’s almost a pity that it’s not as easy as needing verbal proof, that he can’t pull out cuffs as soon as Ramsey says ‘payment’ or ‘shipment’ or ‘blood’. No, with verbal proof any number of dirty cops or corrupt judges could set them free. They need solid physical evidence by the stockpile.

Ramsey flinches when he names his price, a theoretical doubling to an already presumptuous amount, but he doesn’t risk saying no. Ryan hums as an accord is struck.

“Sounds good enough, for now.”

There’s the smile again, the suave cocky showing of teeth, but instead of steel it feels like cardboard, anxiousness sharp and heady, sinking into the lines on the corner of his eyes. The Vagabond doesn’t take his hand when he holds it out to shake, another display of how little he was impressed. Ramsey’s smile falters but his voice somehow manages to stay as steady as it can.

“Great, see you in a week.”

The boss of the Fake AH Crew slides to his feet, steps ahead of the rest of his crew and aims for the door. Ryan lets him almost get there.

“Ramsey.”

The group turns back to him. He sets his hands on the table, turns them up in a mock of placation, of unthreatening behavior. His voice is far from the same.

“Try to keep that mutt of yours on a short leash. Wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to him.”

He sees that sharpening in Ramsey’s eyes again, even from here. The redhead trembles with rage. They leave without another word. Ryan leaves soon after, the black of his Zentorno melting him into the shadows of the streets.

James gets back home, gets the mask off, and then the fear hits, smashing through him with all the force of a lightning bolt. With shaking hands he manages to get the door shut and locked, knuckles flushed white with the force of the emotion. Every single time he wanted to feel fear at the bar, packed into this one moment. He struggles to keep his feet, feeling oh so very small without the mask to hide him from the world. Weakly determined not to collapse like he did mere days ago, he fishes out the phone he’d been given, tries to text Barb or Kdin or hell, anyone he can get ahold of from the life he’s used to, trying to tell them that he’s been successful thus far, trying to do something, make a joke about the fruit baskets he’d thought of earlier, but all his trembling hands can manage is a unintelligible bundle of letters. When he tries to use his voice it cracks and fails him, as useless as his hands. Finally he gives up, tosses the phone onto the couch.

Dizzy with the force of the panic, he carefully makes his way to the kitchen, stripping out of the jacket, the shirt, the jeans, anything that makes the Vagabond who he is instead of poor shaking James. Unable to still himself he barely manages to get a box of potentially stale cereal from the cupboard, a bottle of water from under the sink, before stumbling his way back down, landing in the wretched old cushions of his couch beside his phone. It takes him the better part of an hour for the calm to sink in, helped along its way by handfuls of absolutely stale cereal. Exhausted, he puts the box on the coffee table, shoves the phone of the cushion, and lies down, out almost instantly.

With the morning comes a continuation of the calm, enough to manage a text out to Kdin about his progress thus far. The text he gets back almost helps in its own sarcastically simple way. _Good luck, don’t die._ Important words to live by. James groans out a weak laugh, worms his way around until his feet are under him, and, with equal fervor, manages to get himself to the bathroom. He strips the rest of the way, turns on the shower and slips under the spray, desperate to get the grime of the bar, of the people there, off of him, platitudes swirling in his brain as he scrubs viciously at his skin. They’re criminals, they’re nothing, you have no reason to be scared of them, you’ll take them down soon enough. He hates how empty they feel in the face of the fear still trying to crawl its way up his throat.

He looks down at the drain, at the swirl of colors there, and realizes that his facepaint is still on, still caked to his face, stuck against the bruise forming under his eye.

He barely manages to make it to the toilet before he pukes up what’s left of the cereal and the water, even less appealing on the way back up.

Soaking wet, shower still running, he sunk down onto the familiar place of the bathroom floor, staring at nothing. It had been so easy to lose himself in the Vagabond, to be a vicious criminal. He can’t do this, he _can’t do this._

James is sick again before he manages to get the facepaint off, manages to get to bed and lie down, a bone-deep tired settling into his bones. The next few days he stays there as much as he can, contemplating if it’s too late to turn tail, too late to come crawling back to the precinct and _beg_ them to use someone else, someone with more gut and less twists in his heart.

The week passes, the morning comes. James drags himself out of bed, showers, eats, and piece by piece, puts on the skin of the Vagabond. The jacket feels like support as he slips it on, zips it up over his weapons, ammo tucked into holes in the holsters, wrapped around his leg just beneath the knife. His eyes catch on the face in the mirror as he grabs for the mask, on the splay of colors blending together and hiding away any semblance of features. He doesn’t look any different from the man he was at the bar but somehow, somehow he doesn’t think he’d recognize this man staring back at him as the same man from then. With the mask in his hands he looks confident, strong and smug and above all else, dangerous, a manic glee in the corner of his eye. Maybe he could do this after all.

James takes a deep breath, slips on the mask.

Ryan steps out the door, down to the street, full of languid ease.

He has a job to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took longer than expected. I caught a bug while I was writing the first three chapters and it kicked my ass for two weeks straight and still hasn't gone away. Plus this being the first chapter with Jeremy!!! And also fighting.
> 
> That said it's over 1k more than the original chapter soooooooo yeah. Enjoy!

He parks in an old parking complex, largely forgotten as the city shot up around it, the damp and chilly soak of early morning dew settling over everything like a fog. Ryan leans against the hood, musing on how oddly quiet Los Santos is in the morning, most of its citizens, criminals and law-abiding alike, still asleep in their beds, most everyone else having the basic courtesy to remain as quiet as possible. Too bad they’re probably going to cause a lot of noise with whatever destruction the Fakes have planned. 

They don’t make him wait long, a pitch black Roosevelt skidding to a halt before him with all the grace of a three-legged giraffe. He glances over the car, quite possibly the most obnoxiously obvious thing they could have chosen, between its old-timey look and the stupid ‘logo’ that they’ve emblazoned on the side. All in all, it looks like a death trap. He crosses his arms loosely across his chest.

“I’m not getting in that.”

The driver’s side door slams open, the redheaded kid stomping out with daggers in his eyes. Apparently he doesn’t appreciate the condescending amusement in Ryan’s voice. When he tries to get up into Ryan’s personal space, he barely meets his eyes. Too short.

“Hey fuck you, your shitty ass car’s got nothing on the Fake AH Mobile. I’ve put down more money than you’ve ever seen on her.”

The sarcasm that soaks through Ryan’s voice is almost palpable in the air.

“Oh really, how cute.”

The kid growls fiercely, pulls his fist back to punch him again, sees Ryan’s eyes glint with the dare, and then a hand closes down around the redhead’s, stopping him in his tracks. Both of them look back to see Ramsey, looking distinctly tired and unimpressed. He only drops the kid’s hand when he relaxes, steps away from the Vagabond. Ramsey looks between them with a weary sigh visible in the lines on his face.

“It’s barely fucking seven in the morning, can you two calm your fucking cocks for two minutes please?”

Apparently early morning Ramsey has no time for the bravado he put on in their previous encounter. Right now he looks more like a long-suffering parent. Ryan knows he shouldn’t be antagonizing them but the way the redhead’s face burns bright with fury is a bit too amusing for him to resist. Ramsey’s face is just the icing on the cake.

Maybe this is why he never got a date to prom. Either that or the fact that he never really got close to anyone in high school. Always a possibility.

The rest of Ramsey’s crew step out of the ridiculous car, all five in total. The Vagabond huffs, eyeing them over.

“Need all your dogs to make sure the rabid one doesn’t fall off his leash Ramsey?”

Ramsey grumbles something under his breath about dumb macho idiots and Ryan’s fairly certain he’s the subject of that grumbling, but he lets it slide in favor of looking over the others. Same burly guy from the bar, same idiot in sunglasses, though those make more sense now with the glare of the early sun cutting through the air. The one that catches his eye is one that, now that he thinks about it, was indeed there at the bar as well, though his clothes stand out far more now than they did in the dim light of that seedy place. Short with a bit of a beard, he would probably blend in with any crowd if it weren’t for the fact that his outfit consisted of a bright orange shirt, mustard yellow pants with matching shoes, all of it topped with an ugly purple blazer. He is, for lack of a better word, a complete eyesore. When he notices Ryan looking, he grins, reaches up a black-gloved hand to fix his sunglasses, tilt his white stetson up a little, practically breathing showmanship. The scrawny one in the sunglasses moves away from the group after a minute, heads for the elevator, never once looking back at them. The Vagabond watches him go, turns back to Ramsey for an explanation.

“Not on hand. Now, do you wanna fucking know what you’re doing or what?”

He lets Ramsey simmer in his frustration for a moment before waving a hand, indicating for him to get on with it. With a frankly impressive roll of his eyes Ramsey turns, reaching back into the Roosevelt to pull out a map and spread it over the hood of the car. Ryan circles around as the others crowd in, settling on Ramsey’s free side, all cocky arrogance as he stands nearly shoulder to shoulder with the shorter crime boss. As Ramsey speaks he turns his attention to the map, spreads gloved hands across the edges as he listens intently. The plan hasn’t changed from the vague outline of the week previous, a quick and vicious operation to test out the Vagabond’s mettle, wipe out a cluster of a rival gang, try to keep their leader alive for interrogation. He can work with that.

In the vague twitching of nerves in the back of his head, James hesitates at the thought of killing others, falters, but is quickly soothed by the reminder that these are criminals, same as the Fakes. The world won’t miss them. Ramsey points out entrance points, potential areas of interest. Ryan can feel the others around him getting into it, excited for the bloodshed they’re about to cause. He grins behind the mask, looks up to them with wild blue eyes that would make any other man flinch.

“Well, shall we then.”

Despite themselves, the others return his grin with terrifyingly gleeful intensity. Even the redhead beams, lets out a roar of bloodthirsty joy. As Ramsey rolls up the map the rest of his crew pile back into the Roosevelt, the big guy in the driver’s seat, the redhead and the eyesore in the back. Still hesitant to get inside of the beast of a thing, Ryan hangs back, debates just getting into his own car and following them there. The eyesore, settled into the middle of the bench-like backseat, crams a little closer against the redhead, pats the open seat-space next to him with a broad smile.

“C’mon, Jack’s the best driver in LS, you’ll be fine.”

Ramsey’s getting in the front passenger’s seat, the redhead looking like he frankly wouldn’t mind if the Vagabond stood in front of the car instead of getting in of it. The antagonistic urge bubbling up in him again he shrugs slightly and slips in beside the eyesore, feeling a little crowded as he shut the door and they started off, frankly with a lot more skill than their entrance had given the car. For a second he expects silence, the type that falls over the precinct whenever raids happen, the radios as deathly silent as the building itself before the sounds of commotion begin. Instead the Fakes restart whatever discussion they’d been apparently having before they arrived, voices piling over each other in a cacophony of sound, the eyesore next to him one of the loudest before suddenly bowing out of the conversation to turn his attention to the mercenary next to him. He takes off his sunglasses and Ryan suddenly realizes that this guy is a kid, probably younger than even the redhead. His eyes gleam with boyish excitement.

“Hi, I’m Jeremy, resident everyman, occasional parkour and extraction expert. I’m the  _ other _ run-and-gun asshole here.”

James muses distantly about how, while the cops don’t know anything about the Fakes, they apparently have no problem telling other criminals anything and everything. Ryan grins behind his mask, feeling surprisingly playful.

“I guess everyone needs to start young.”

The kid stares at him for a minute before bursting out laughing, nearly silencing the rest of the car as they all turn to look at him. His laughter is nice, bright and surprisingly human. His hand reaches out, pats Ryan on the arm.

“Holy shit, I’m twenty-five dude. Not that young.”

The innocent mocking comes to him instinctually. 

“Maybe, but plenty short enough that I suppose being a bit of a thief works well for you.”

“Hey that’s a low blow.”

His smile hasn’t faded, though now there’s a fond edge that seems to tell of this sort of playful mockery is far from uncommon or unwarranted. Ramsey reaches back to smack at the eyesore’s shoulder.

“So just short enough to hit you huh Lil J?”

The grin turns to Ramsey and the eyesore shrugs concedingly, rejoining the conversation with a warm laugh, Almost imperceptibly, everyone in the car seems to relax, not much but enough that Ryan can look all of them over without feeling the now-noticed tension in the air, keeping out of the conversation yet again. Ramsey remains twisted around in his seat, smiling back at the eyesore with something that can’t be anything other than fondness, as obvious as he can be. Occasionally the redhead glances over at him, his anger definitely cooled but still lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to lash out at the slightest give. Absently he goes over the names he now knows, thinks that he should write them down later. The eyesore laughs again, bright and open, slicing through his thoughts like a brand. Suddenly Ryan can’t wait to get out of the cramped quarters of the car.

With the driver obeying  _ most  _ of the driving laws, they don’t take too much longer to get to their destination. They drive by it once so Ramsey can point it out, a fairly large relatively modern house, built and seemingly abandoned, before parking a little more than a block away in an open garage. Apparently Ramsey’s been planning this for a while. They pile out, check their weapons. Ryan pulls the clip out of one of his pistols, counting the bullets. As it clicks back into the gun the driver calls to him, makes to toss something. He swings instinctively, leveling the barrel sight right between the bearded man’s eyes. In an instant all of the previous slight relaxation drains from the air, all of the Fakes tensing as they remember that there is a stranger in their midst, the ever dangerous Vagabond. Despite his previous slight humor he’s still the monster they’ve heard about, the snide, condescending beast they’d met in the bar. Ramsey’s gun starts to swing up to his head, the redhead takes a threatening step forward, and then the driver puts up his hands, defusing the situation with a calm tone, low and even. Unthreatening.

“Sorry, that was my bad. Didn’t think about how it would look to you. Here, it’s an earpiece, so you can keep informed like the rest of us.”

He opens his hand, indeed revealing a tiny silver device, designed to fit in an ear. Ryan eyes it for a second, looks over the driver for any hint of deceit, then slowly lowers his gun. The driver steps forward as he holsters it, smiling when he snatches it from his broad hand, exceedingly warm for the second-long brush Ryan’s fingers make against it. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the eyesore reach out, pull the still tense redhead back and down into a chair, giving him place to calm down. Ryan rolls the device in his fingers, waiting for the driver to stop looking at him so he can shift his mask, put the earpiece in. Instead his hand twitches like he wants to reach out and reassuringly pat his shoulder before he pulls it back, sets it lightly on one hip.

“Really, I am sorry about that. You have every right not to trust us yet.”

He grunts, not feeling like answering. The driver watches him for a second more before nodding, going back to the car to get out body armor, passing it out to the rest of the Fakes. Ryan moves towards the driveway, pulls awkwardly at the corner of his mask to get the earpiece up and into his ear. It hums low with empty static, currently unconnected. Behind him he can just barely hear Ramsey murmuring to someone, trying to mask the sound of his voice with the click and shift of checking weapons.

“Paranoid son of a bitch isn’t he?”

“You were expecting something different? He might have been a bit of a dick but all of us were like that when we started. Not to mention Michael  _ punched him _ . Paranoia’s part of the job Geoff, even if you hate to admit it. Michael took ages to open up to us and Gavin still won’t tell us anything about his history. Hell, Jeremy’s the only one who was openly trusting of us right from the start and even you’ve said it might’ve gotten him killed.”

Ramsey doesn’t respond, silently thinking. Ryan turns back towards them, acting like he hasn’t heard a thing. The crime boss gives a weak glare to the driver, shoving his shoulder the tiniest bit.

“Fuck you Jack.”

“You love me, now let’s go get this over with.”

Almost on queue, the earpieces crackle to life. 

“You almost there? I’ve been bloody waiting.”

British. Maybe the dumbass in the sunglasses from earlier? It opens up the possibility of the Fake AH Crew having international connections, something the LSPD have no information on. The indignant tone of the voice drags a laugh out of Ramsey, the sound echoing through the static in Ryan’s ear.

“Not exactly the shortest drive. You got your eyes up?”

“Yeah, encryption on their feed is crap, it’s bloody stupid that I had to go and reattach my bugs to the server lines, stupid construction. Wish they’d upgrade their system.”

The grumbling seems to brighten the moods of the Fakes, all of them giving each other knowing smiles. Ramsey rolls his eyes, slots his .50 caliber back into its holster. Unwieldy, powerful, good for threatening but with an equal possibility to take your own eye out if you can’t handle the kickback. In the back of his head, Ryan hears a joke about compensation coming on.

“What’s it look like there Gav?”

“They’re lazy, not expecting an attack this early. Shift change is happening. If you hurry, there won’t be anyone there to stop you guys from breaking down the door like a bunch of knobs. I’ll have you covered for most of the rooms inside.”

Ramsey’s smile is like fire and ice, bright with impending carnage, sharp enough to kill. He gestures out to the open road.

“Let’s go.”

Without another word they head down the street, sticking to the early morning shadows, Ramsey in front, Ryan in the back. There’s no one outside and true to the word of the Brit, Ramsey reels back and knocks the flimsy door off its hinges with a resounding bang, alerting everyone inside to their presence. The first man to come around the corner has his head turn to paste as Ramsey’s heavy gun puts a bullet through his skull. His arm doesn’t even twitch from the kickback. 

Chaos descends, the criminals inside scrambling for their weapons. The Fakes charge in, splitting off like they’ve done this a thousand times. Ryan moves down the hallway, fingers as still as death on the trigger of his pistol. The voice in their ears directs the six of them like an orchestra, warning about incoming hostiles, giving brief layouts of rooms each is individually about to enter. They work through the house with the same efficiency as a machine, occasionally running across each other as they clear the house. It’s surprisingly easy, the men shoot at him and Ryan reacts with a bullet to return theirs, considerably more accurate than they, the weapon in his hand the one he’s clocked dozens of hours at the range with. When he runs out of ammo for that one he changes to another. It costs him his accuracy but he makes up for it with ferocity, emptying three or four bullets into each person he runs across to make sure they stay down.

He turns the corner out of a room and immediately there is a searing pain in shoulder, slamming into him with all the force of a stampeding bull and almost knocking him into a spin. Ryan manages to catch his hand against the doorway, using the force of the almost-spin to wrench himself back into the cleared room, pressing himself up the wall for cover. He presses a glove to his pained shoulder, the fingers coming away bloody. Lucky fucking shot. Anger sparks through him as suddenly as the pain, raging and fierce, a spark on dry kindling roaring out into a forest fire. Everything slips into red. He can hear the one who got a shot off on him stepping down the hall, waiting for him to step back out, confused by his lack of returning fire.. Stupid stupid stupid, hired for brawn, not brains. It hurts to move his arm but he barely feels it through the haze of fury, black leather fingers reaching down to the knife strapped to his thigh. The smooth handle feels like a familiar friend. 

The steps stop just outside the door and the Vagabond moves with nigh-inhuman speed, charging back around the corner and diving past the slightly-lowered muzzle, throwing his assailant to the ground. The Vagabond follows him down, one bloodied glove around his throat, the other driving his blade into the man’s gut. The flesh cuts like butter, splitting apart and spilling blood across his dark jeans, turning them almost red. He watches for a minute, yanking the knife from the sundered flesh roughly, the man beneath him writhing in pain as he feels his lifeforce draining. For a second, the Vagabond debates leaving him this way, watching him fade, but he has other things to do. He ends the suffering with a vicious slice across the throat, messy as it catches on muscle, deep and almost-instantaneous. Stepping slowly off the body he looks up to see both the redhead and the eyesore, their eyes meeting the icy blue darkness of the Vagabond. Putting his hands up, the redhead immediately backs up into the previous room, any previous testiness drained by the bloody sight. The eyesore waits for him to wipe his blade against his bloodied jeans, doing almost nothing to clean it, before backing out as well, something close to amazement in his eyes.

Feeling the spark of pain starting to return through his fading anger, Ryan shoves down the far-off spark of what probably is meant to be nausea and finds a quiet empty space, quickly taking off his jacket and ripping a strip from the shirt beneath to tie tight over the hole in his shoulder, distantly thinking that maybe next time he should get some body armor like what all the Fakes have. With a mild wince he slips his jacket back on, zips it up high, and steps back out into the fray. 

He doesn’t notice the bubble of the security camera on the pebbled ceiling.

There isn’t much left to do, Ryan doesn’t even have to go for a gun again. Instead the stragglers are picked off by the others, Ryan slowly making his way towards the back of the house. He nearly runs into Ramsey as he finds the office in the far back, the crime boss giving his blood-soaked clothes a mild look before shrugging, instead focusing his attention on the little stack of various alcoholic items in the corner of the room. The others soon find them, Ramsey leaning against the bullet-riddled desk with a finger of whiskey in his hand. He glances them over with the shrewd eyes of a businessman.

“Rest of the house good?”

They all nod. The voice in their ear confirms. Ramsey grins like he’s been given the keys to the universe.

“No such luck on keeping their leader alive but whatever. Jack can call the cleanup crew and we can all go home with some extra cash in our pockets.”

Those shrewd eyes land on Ryan, on his tense stance, on the blood practically dripping off him.

“Vagabond, you want your cut wired to you or what?”

Ryan shrugs slightly, surprised by how steady his voice is when it comes out despite the slowly increasing pain.

“Whatever works.”

“Great, give Jack the info to work that shit out and let’s all go fucking home.”

With that he shoves off the desk, gun in its holster, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. There is a tiredness to his features that Ryan only notices as he brushes past. Ryan turns to the driver, complacent with his own level of exhaustion and pain, quietly mumbling out the name and code of the account. The redhead scurried to follow Ramsey as the driver carefully typed down what Ryan gave him. When they’re both sure he has it, the rest of them follow after the previous two, relatively quiet as the voices of Ramsey and the redhead ricochet back down the hall towards them, too far away now to make out. Ryan can feel the eyesore’s eyes on him but the kid thankfully says nothing. He doesn’t seem to mind having Ryan’s bloodied clothes pressed up against his colorful ones as they all cram back into the car. The blood’s mostly dry now anyways, starting to flake. 

Ryan leans back in his seat, shutting his eyes and letting their slightly diminished banter wash over him. By the time they get back to the parking lot the pain in his arm has settled into a pulse, hurting on and off and on again. He gives no farewell as he clambers out of their cramped vehicle, slips into the smooth seating of his Zentorno. Absently Ryan thinks he might be getting blood onto the back of it. Once the Roosevelt is gone he pulls off the mask and heads home, gently holding his wounded shoulder as he makes his way up the fire escape, not wanting any of his usually indifferent neighbors to start questioning. 

His apartment feels empty as he manages to force his window open, eerily silent in the wake of so much noise. Too tired to dwell on it he stumbles his way to the bathroom, the mask tossed aside to land somewhere on the ground. He catches his reflection in the mirror, once again struck with that feeling that the face staring back at him isn’t the one that first stepped into that bar, or perhaps even the one that left the apartment scant hours before. With a weak groan he starts to undress, realizing as he gets the jacket off that his shirt, even ignoring the strip of repurposed cloth, is now utterly ruined, damp with his own blood. It takes a little effort for him to pull the first aid kid from beneath the sink, to pull the sticking shirt off of himself and sit on the counter, carefully bandaging himself up. Ryan slumps back against the wall, sighs deep and long before gently sliding off again so he can wash his face. The paint is smudged but the white still stands out strong against the red and black, as pure as a grinning smile. 

He nearly faceplants into the sink getting it all off, bone-deep exhaustion dragging down his every movement. James kicks his bloody clothes into a pile to deal with later, vetoing a shower and instead making his way through his empty apartment to collapse into his bed. The man beneath the monster doesn’t dwell on the fact that this is his first time coming home after one of these ventures without an ensuing panic attack, doesn’t dwell on the fact that the vague itching of potential nausea from earlier never returned. Instead he simply rolls so he isn’t resting on his injured shoulder and passes out, falling into the best sleep he’s had in ages, the sun just barely crawling over the buildings around him to hang fat and heavy in the sky above.

Perhaps it is better this way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College is _hard._

The call to come to the precinct happens a few days later, a voicemail from Barb telling him to drop by when he can. James assumes this means that his money transfer went through to the account the precinct set up. Dirty money, stained with blood. He wonders what the LSPD could do with that cash. Probably a lot, not that he’ll ever see it. With a sigh he carefully sits up out of bed, wincing as his injured shoulder twinges sharply.

He still feels exhausted, the pain making him feel like someone’s taken an ice cream scoop to his insides, leaving him cold and hollow. With effort he manages to throw on some relatively clean jeans and a t-shirt, a brown leather jacket over the top. Halfway out the door he realizes that he can’t take the Zentorno, not if he doesn’t want to make a scene. With a tired sigh he goes back inside to get some change for bus fare. The second he gets off the bus by the precinct, already thinking about seeing if he can get his dinky little car back just to use for everyday things, a voice calls out to him.

“James!”

James looks up, shaking himself from his thoughts as a thin young man comes trotting down after him, shaggy hair tied back in a messy bun. There’s a bit of scruff on his face, his phone nearly falling from his jacket pocket. He musters up a smile, hoping it makes him look more together than he is.

“Hey Jon.”

The reporter skids to a stop in front of James, giving him a once-over and giving the officer a chance to do the same. Jon looks a bit healthier than he did the last time James saw him, a bit more muscle, a bit more relaxed scruff. He doesn’t look like he has any particularly serious leads he’s losing his sleep over. No other reporters around, casual clothes, all signs pointing to Jon either dropping by the precinct in hopes of an early lead, or dropping by to pick up information on one he already has. Something tells James it’s probably the latter.

“You look like shit James, something the matter?”

He shrugs, aims for nonchalant, brings up an arm to brush the back of his nose like it’s running.

“Came down with something unfortunately, hopefully I’ll be better in a few days.”

Jon glances him over again before smiling warmly, reaching out to pat his arm. James just barely manages to avoid wincing, the movement jostling his shoulder. The smile isn’t the one of Jon trying to sift through the words, it’s the smile of easy acceptance that first made him trust Jon. It tells James that he got away with it, that Jon believes his lie. When did he get good enough to trick Jon, a functional lie detector? They fall in step together, side by side with their arms nearly touching as they head for the precinct.

“So why were you on the bus? Get caught drunk driving in that little death trap of yours?”

James snorts, fixing Jon with a sideways smile, more genuine than the last.

“Yeah, _me,_ drunk driving.”

“Never know, you might have a whole secret life I know nothing about. You could be James _Bond_ for all I know.”

James ignores the way his heart stutters for a second, shaking his head like Jon’s ridiculous instead.

“Sure, absolutely. Give me my ejector seat and my exploding pen, I’ll show you just how badass I am.”

Jon’s laugh seems like it’ll rattle the windows around them. They step to a stop outside the precinct, James gesturing to the door with a weak hand.  
“You going in?

“Yeah, but just as far as the front desk. Got a packet to pick up.”

James holds the door open for him, Jon ducking beneath his arm and darting ahead to the front desk. The receptionist isn’t there, instead some new guy James hasn’t seen before, hair twisted up into a light fauxhawk, scruff on his face, grumbling as he digs through the drawers. If it weren’t for the badge on a cord around his neck, James might not have considered him an officer. Plainclothes. Jon leans over the desk, snags a rubberbanded packet with his name scribbled on the front. The officer glances up, smiles flirtatiously at him, and goes back to digging through the drawers. Jon pauses for a second, watching him, before his interest in the packet takes precedent, nearly breaking the rubber band as he pulls it off. James comes up beside him, watches his face light up with investigative curiosity.

“What is it?”

“You heard of the Vagabond?”

James can practically _taste_ the irony.

“Not really. Haven’t been in the loop of weirdly named criminals lately.”

Jon practically glows, voice knocking up the slightest octave in his excitement.

“He’s _fascinating._ I got the assignment a little while ago and it’s like...it’s like he appeared from nowhere. None of my contacts outside the police force have anything concrete yet, and even then I had to beg for these scraps.”

He waves the packet a bit, hands it to James to glance through. It’s all vague, well-created. He’s curious as to who put it together. Jon keeps talking.

“Whoever this guy is, he really doesn’t want anyone but the right people to find him, and I think it worked! One of my informants said that he was spotted with the Fake AH Crew, like doing jobs with them. The cops seem really nervous about it, it’s going to be so much fun to write.”

Bless the acting chops of whoever’s feeding Jon information. The kid has the wool pulled so far down over his eyes that he might as well be wearing it as a sweater. James smiles, Ryan muses on how surprised the reporter might be if he realized.

“Well, good luck. See you next time?”

They part with a wave, Jon practically running. He has to pause momentarily, shoving hard against the door to defeat the pressure differential the blasting AC is creating. He stumbles once the door gives, catches himself, taking off in an instant, eager on a level James hasn’t seen in awhile. He turns back to the reception desk, the plainclothes officer with his arm half-buried in a drawer. His smile reminds James oddly of spider’s silk, far too smooth and easy, just the right amount of teeth and curl. He’s had practice, a good plainclothes.

“Hiya. Haven’t seen you around.”

James raises an eyebrow.

“Could say the same for you.”

“Yeah, I’m just visiting for a bit. From the northern precinct. Detective Luna, nice to meet you.”

He holds up his free hand for James to shake, which he does a bit awkwardly.

“Officer James Haywood.”

The plainclothes officer pulls his hand free from the drawer, a little red stapler held successfully in his fingers.

“Awesome. You should probably put your uniform on there, Officer Haywood.”

“I’m on vacation.”

The detective laughs, shrugs.

“Sure. See ya around.”

He trots off, James watches him go. Luna waves the stapler successfully as he steps to a stop in front of a uniformed officer, yet another person James doesn’t recognize. The officer’s been watching them, his expression something like amusement. He looks taller than even James, his hair nearly out of code, a mop of black tinged with silver, too old to be a rookie but otherwise seemingly ageless. When he raises a hand to wave at James, acknowledging him, there’s a tattoo on his hand. James waves back quickly, suddenly feeling like a bug under a microscope, quickly making his way back to Barb’s desk without looking over again. When he approaches, she simply levels a pointed finger back toward the Captain’s office. He groans.

“Really, can’t just stop by with you?”

“I don’t make the rules, sorry big guy.”

The grin on her face ruins any belief he has in those words.

“Have you been taking care of Elvis?”

“The plant? Yeah, it’s doing fine Ry, don’t worry. Go talk to the boss man and give him an update, then go home and go the fuck to sleep because you look _terrible_.”

James just barely catches the giggle before it bursts out, squashing it down to a sharp exhale of air. Before all this, only Jon ever really worried about his health. Now, suddenly he seems to be of importance.

“So I’ve been told. I’ll be fine, just a little bug.”

“If you say so. Get a move on bud.”

He salutes, earning a laugh as he turns and winds his way back to the office. His hand barely touches the wood before there’s a shout to enter. Inside there’s a bevy of lamps, keeping the room relatively lit but incredibly hot. Paperwork sits in stacks nearly as tall as the desk.

“Sit down Haywood. Overheads blew, so this is how we’re having this conversation. Talk to me.”

James blinks, surprised by the rather impressive terseness of his tone. It takes him a second to recover but he elects not to pry, instead focusing on the task at hand. He gives a quick selective recap, shifting around nervously as he works his way around the vicious murder he committed in the heat of the fight, the banter he had for those few minutes with the Fakes. Never once does the Captain look up from his work.

“That’s good. If they like you, or at least how you work, they’ll probably ask you to help out on a heist soon.”

His brain stops. A job killing criminals is a lot different than a _heist_.

“...Sir?”

“I expect you to go along with it Haywood. For every one heist the Fakes fuck up, there are two that succeed. Going through with one or two can stop dozens of them in the future. Dozens of civilian murders too.”

James falls silent, smart enough not to argue with the rather snippy Captain. Instead he sits back, listens as the Captain continues to tell him the odds and ends of what he should do. In the back of his head, Ryan flares with indignation. The thought that he of all people couldn’t do this job… James shakes the thought away, nods when the Captain finishes.

“Yessir. Is that all?”

“Yeah, get going.”

He very nearly bolts, returning to Barb’s desk. There’s someone there talking to her, bespectacled and relaxed, not even remotely in uniform. Young, leaning against the edge of the desk. Barb grins at James as he approaches, bright as the sun. Sometimes James thinks Barb is a bit too bright for this line of work, but what does he know.

“James, I want you to meet Kdin. Figured it’d be better if you met face to face.”

The kid pushes off the edge of Barb’s desk, holds out a hand for James to shake. It’s firm, strong and warm, but there’s something predatory in the grin he’s given, almost reptilian in its calm calculated coolness. His mind travels back to that simple text he got, sarcastic and firm. Good luck, don’t die. Far more knowledgeable in hindsight, expectant of his survival.

“It’s great to be working alongside you, can’t wait to see what adventures we have.”

Kdin lets go of his hand, gives a jaunty little bow to Barb before wandering back to whatever dark hole Barb kept her little squadron of techies in. She turns her attention back to him, no doubt to once again shoo him off home, but she’s interrupted by James’s phone, the high trill of a text. Curiously he pulls it out of his jacket, staring down at the message on the screen. A number he doesn’t recognize, an impossible message. A time, a date, a simple question. What did he know about the Pacific Standard?

His brain races. Could they have gotten his number from the name of the bank account? Were they the same? Does this mean what he think it means?

“James, you okay?”

“...I think I just got invited on my first heist.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's shorter than the rest but it's the second in as many days and the next chapter is a heist chapter so you know that one will be considerably longer
> 
> Also, additional author's note at the end to people who may not follow me on tumblr <3

He has a week, just a week. The assumption has clearly been made that he is going to show up, do his job, get his cut, and leave. No need to include a mercenary on the planning, hell he was probably included last minute into their plan with this short of a timeframe. He’s probably got something relatively small to do so they don’t need to worry about him. Still on a trial run, albeit a trial run with civilians and weaponry and potential casualties. James tries not to focus on that, instead putting his full attention into trying to learn the bank, the layout and security and all the little things the Fakes undoubtedly already knew. Best not to look like an idiot, especially considering he’s never stepped foot in the Pacific Standard. He’s never even gone anywhere _near_ a bank in Los Santos, to be honest. His pay isn’t good enough to warrant the hassle of trying to figure it all out when his money is arguably safer in a box under his bed than in any vault in the city.

Kdin gets him a new phone, a new number, as well as the blueprints to the bank, printed off and left in his mailbox in a method that reminds him far too much of a spy movie for him not to laugh. They’re pretty simple, labeled to help James out as much as the precinct can. Another text; _read them carefully, don’t die._ James is starting to think that maybe that might be the tech’s signature for texts. James assumes the blueprints were got through legal means, through someone with power in the LSPD. Or at least he hopes so.

Guns aren’t a problem, he has the ones in the bag and those are nice, the problem is his arm. The wound’s scabbed over as best as he thinks it can but it still hurts to move too much. He needs to learn how to fire the heavier weaponry, not just his pistol, without seriously injuring himself again. He needs to learn how to absorb the kickback. Normally he’d just go to a range but that’s not something he can do now, not with the risk of someone recognizing the confiscated guns. Or questioning why he doesn’t have a license for them, especially because he can’t go around flashing his badge like an asshole, it’d raise too many questions, create too many ties. Besides, he doesn’t even have it, it’s back in the precinct for safekeeping, tucked in alongside his uniform.

When he texts to ask for ideas, Kdin suggests the desert. For however reptilian Kdin seemed face to face, the tech certainly has a way with words, soothing James’s mind with solid facts and practised ease. The desert is far out of the city, vast and lonesome, easy to use for practice. A true snake in the grace, deadly venom and slippery words. James is fairly certain he never wants to be on a side Kdin _isn’t_ , more for his own safety than anything.

He takes his little car, struggles it up and out to the desert, sorry little wheels barely catching on the sand, parks a little ways off the road. He walks to a quieter area, over a couple dunes, sets up a target with a bit of a difficulty, a pillow stuck into sand, propped up by the grains. James spends the next few hours practicing, hissing in pain as the rifles punch his arm, pushing against the healing skin but never quite breaking it. By the end he feels like he can reasonably bullshit that he’s used guns bigger than his pistol before, that he’s not hurting himself every single time they fire. He rubs his shoulder as he digs his pillow back out of the sand, makes his way back to his dinky little car. 

As he tosses the pillow in the trunk to throw away later, he absently wishes he could just use his pistol, the one weapon he knows like the back of his hand. The bag follows the pillow, the knife catching the light as it’s nearly jostled free. It’s clean, he wiped it free of blood, but the sight of it brings back images of a man gasping his last beneath the watching eyes of the Vagabond, stomach torn messily open by the shining blade. He swallows thickly, slams the trunk shut. When he sits behind the wheel his hands shake, his throat aching for the calming feel of smoke, an urge he hasn’t felt in a long time.

On the way back home he stops by a gas station, buys a pack and a lighter, throws the pillow in a dumpster. He sits on the hood of his car behind his building, smokes until his hands stop shaking, until the anonymous hunger in his chest dies. Sleep tugs at his mind like a fish on a hook as he trudges his way up to his apartment, too strong for him to fight. He pops a few painkillers, swallows them dry. His clothes get ditched by the laundry, his face mashed against a pillow within minutes. The dark of the room feels oppressive, daunting, but he’s exhausted and sore and he smells like gunpowder and smoke, unconsciousness swallowing him up before he can think too much on it. 

His dreams are senseless, a wash of painted colors, blood dripping from steel, a laughing skull. Gold and green and black and red, swirling around him until there’s nothing he can do but drown. They wake him in the dead of night, trapped in his sheets, panting through a cold sweat. They slip from his mind as he stares into his darkness, lost from his clutches. As sleep takes him again, they are forgotten entirely.

The rest of the week passes similarly, alternating between learning the bank and hours out in the desert, each time coming home sore and exhausted. One day he breaks the scab, staunches the bleeding with his shirt as best he can. The next day he just stays home, bandaged and gathering himself mentally. He stares at the blueprints until his eyes are sore. 

He has to buy another pack the night before the heist but finally, as morning comes, it’s time. His first heist. 

His hands are shaky again as he gets dressed, the tremble traversing up into his body now forcing him to steady his arm against the counter as he ever so carefully drags one paint-laden brush after another over the curves of his face. The shaking feels different as it rattles his core, something other than panic as he washes the brushes, zips up the front of the jacket, stares at himself in the mirror. The man in the mirror is smiling, confidence radiating from the flash of teeth behind the death written in the paint, casual strength in the square of his shoulders, the way his body shifts beneath the leather. His hands travel over his body, checking to ensure the assorted weaponry is in place. Knife finally taken from the bag and strapped to his thigh, pistol in its holster, bag by the door, no body armor still, unable to figure out where he could possibly get some that didn’t have ‘police’ emblazoned on the back.

Ryan grins at his reflection one last time, mask in hand. The shaking’s resolved itself into jittery excitement, condensed into a tight little ball in his chest. A lead actor waiting in the wings, counting down the seconds to his part to begin. Good first impressions are fine, sure, but this is the true performance, the opening night instead of the dress rehearsal, and he’s nothing if not a theatrical man at heart.

The mask feels like a second skin as he slips it on. The bag weighs down his good shoulder as he slings it up, glances out into the ever empty hallway outside his door before stepping out, the stairs deathly silent as he trots down to the garage, the Zentorno nearly hidden in the darkness. The purr of the engines rumbles in time with his excitement, growing into a roar as he charges out into the street. It’s a few miles to his destination, yet another goddamn parking lot. He’ll get there, they’ll show up, and they’ll all have some fun.

It’s practically guaranteed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is a thing that's been a fact for this fic since late last year but endgame Ryan looks vastly different from earlygame James. This has purpose in the plot but be aware that Ryan come later chapters will have tats and piercings and stuff. He might already have one or two. My friend Novi made a [really cool art](http://treasuretrovetrashcan.tumblr.com/post/136587092210/this-is-not-the-story-of-that-man-of-james-of) of endgame Ryan's face if you want an idea. This is a solid fact in this fic but I figured it would be a good idea to tell those of you that don't know, in case you don't like that kind of thing. Thank you for reading! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combined the old chapter seven and chapter eight. We've caught up with the old version now!

He leans against the hood of the Zentorno, miles from the fucking bank. He’s early, bag at his feet, one gloved hand tapping restlessly against the hood. The other’s up by his mouth, the mask shoved up just enough to let him smoke, soothing his restless nerves. Once all this is all over and done he’ll stop again, put it all away, feel slightly bad for his health. He can handle one little vice or two.

Ryan can hear the squeal of the tires before he sees them, giving him plenty of time to take one last drag and put the cigarette out. A black van, not the Roosevelt this time, charges up just as the mask settles back over his face, the doors opening as he crushes it beneath his boot. Four of them pour out in varying order, wearing almost identical clothing to what he’d seen before. The eyesore’s shirt orange instead of yellow, Ramsey’s in a slightly more worn suit, the redhead’s jacket pulled too close to tell. The driver’s gone, replaced by the one who left the last time, theoretically the Brit he’d heard over the earpieces. With the sun further up into the sky this time he can tell that the sunglasses are gaudy gold aviators, held on his face like a mark of pride. Ryan has to roll his eyes behind his mask, they’re all dressed ridiculously, like they didn’t need to prepare, like they stepped out of whatever hole they came from and came right here.

He makes no effort to push off the hood, practically exuding false mild annoyance at having been left waiting for who knows how long. His hand against the car sits a little too close to the knife on his thigh to be a coincidence. The redhead glares a little, steps a little closer to the idiot in gold, puts himself between the Vagabond and the scrawny dumbass in a dress shirt and skinny jeans. Protective, how cute. Apparently the amused smile on Ryan’s face translates to his eyes because the kid’s face contorts into a ferocious snarl. It only makes him laugh, a noise much darker and sharper than James’s breathy little giggles. The one he’s protecting looks equally amused.

“Ferocious. Little bear cub, trying to play with the grown-ups.”

The no doubt scathing response on the kid’s lips is killed by Ramsey stepping between them, stomping out the fuse that is the redhead’s temper with a coldly professional glare at the both of them, clearly unamused with both Ryan’s pushing of the kid’s buttons and of the kid’s rising to the bait. The idiot in aviators is still grinning, amused. The eyesore looks trapped somewhere between vague amusement and concern. Ryan raises his hands, conceding with the tiniest bit of condescension. Ramsey freezes the glare on him for a little while longer. It’s almost enough to make him squirm.

“Can we just get a move on without you two going at each other’s dicks? We’re burning daylight.”

Ryan almost laughs again at the odd turn of phrase. The kid relaxes with a bit of a grumble.

“Yeah boss, I’m not sitting next to him though.”

Ramsey, Ryan thinks, could do an accurate impersonation of an exasperated parent with a load of leashed toddlers. 

“Sure Michael, why not. You can drive, how about that?”

The redhead huffs, nods. The one behind him reaches up, ruffles his curls. He doesn’t react negatively to the amused affection and Ryan feels like there’s almost something calculated about it, designed to cool the kid’s fiery temper. Instinctually, the Vagabond eyes the idiot over again. Nothing about him screams anything impressive, instead something more like an overconfident asshole, but it almost seems as calculated as the pet. The gaudy gold aviators turn on him, he turns his attention to Ramsey.

“You’re down a person again.”

The exasperation gives way to the ferocious grin of a man who knows something Ryan doesn’t. The grin of a man who holds the city in his hand and rules it with ease.

“Jack’ll meet up with us, he just has something to grab. You ready to go?”

Ryan sets a hand back on the hood, leans against it, making no effort to move.

“I’d prefer to know what you want me to do before we get there, _boss_.”

Ramsey’s shoulders stiffen the slightest bit but even Ryan’s snark can’t dampen the grin on his face. He shrugs, turns back towards the van.

“You’ll be helping me and Jeremy keep the civilians down, keep closer to the door in case the cops start pouring in. I’ll focus on the hostages, Jeremy’ll hang out by the top of the vault. Michael’s gonna keep Gav safe as he gets the safe open and I told you that about Jack. You good now flapjack?”

Ryan can’t help the automatic eyebrow raise from inside his mask. The eyesore has his hand up over his mouth, biting down on a laugh. It makes him look boyish, young, not a bad look. Weird thought. He reaches down to grab his bag, following after all of them as they pile back in. He wonders if they’ll ever not all get out when they come get him. The golden aviators are the last thing to disappear into the van, staring at Ryan once more before vanishing into the passenger’s seat beside the redhead. Ramsey gets in on the other side, rests his head against the window. The eyesore leaves the door open for Ryan, Ramsey eyeing Ryan’s bag as he tosses it in before choosing to say nothing. 

That’s the way it is for most of the drive, in all honesty, no witty banter or snippy comments, all of them focusing on the task at hand. Or maybe just furious at Ryan as is, at least in the case of the redhead behind the wheel. The silence is almost comfortable, Ramsey looking like he’s about to nap, the eyesore beside him resting his head against the back of the seat. Ryan taps his fingers against the sheath on his thigh. Just uncomfortable enough to make him need to do something with hands. A few more taps. Not like he can probably get away with smoking in here.

He pulls the blade from the sheathe, running his gloved hands over the shining metal in an attempt to soothe his hyperactive nerves. It works far better than he cares to admit, the murderous weapon in his hand almost as calming as smoke in his lungs. Little vices. The sun coming through the window catches in the steel, leaves a twisted reflection on the ceiling above him. Ramsey hums, draws his eye. He’s as relaxed as he was when Ryan got into the car but something in the way he holds himself tells Ryan that he’s only just relaxed back to this point.

“Like that thing? Looks sorta cheap.”

Ryan thinks it might be inappropriate to admit that up until recently it wasn’t his so he doesn’t really have any input on its market value despite what Ramsey might think. He looks back down to the blade, flips it over to inspect its other side. Clean, shining, same as the first.

“It’s effective.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the redhead up front tense, no doubt remembering his bloody display back at the rival gang’s place. The eyesore snorts next to him, clearly remembering it in a far different light than the first. Ramsey glances at them, left out of some piece of knowledge but clearly having an idea, what with Ryan’s previously blood-soaked clothes and all. Ryan slips the knife back into its sheath and settles back, not in the mood to talk about it more. After a few seconds he shuts his eyes, just like back at the bar. No need to waste energy when it’s easier to wait and conserve and try not to think about anything too much. 

As they get closer the Fakes start to shift around, getting ready. The eyesore taps his gloved hand, presses another earpiece into his hand. He went home with the last one, didn’t he? With a sigh Ryan sits up enough to turn his face away, sliding a hand carefully up under the mask to put the device in. It’s not as clean as it would be if he’d moved the mask, his fingers are smeared with paint when he frees them. The others don’t notice, more focused with handing out their own disguises, repurposed hockey masks from the look of it, though it bewilders him as to why. There are a lot better masks out there, though maybe that’s just a personal opinion. There’s no opportunity to go back to rest, instead Ryan unzips his bag, pulls out the rifle he chose alongside some extra ammo. He’s about to zip up the bag when the idiot up front shouts, makes a gesture that Ryan can’t quite catch out of the corner of his eye. The van lurches, there’s the sickening crunch of flesh against high velocity metal.

“Nailed ‘im!”

It’s closer to a bird’s squawk than actual words with this level of glee in it but the accent confirms that the idiot in aviators is the Brit from the comms. When he looks up, there’s blood on the windshield. The answer to his question comes before he can even ask it, courtesy of the eyesore next to him, who meets his eyes without an ounce of fear or hesitation. His smile is strangely pure, nothing dark or sinister about it, just happiness.

“Biker. Gav’s got something about them. You get used to it.”

In the back of his head, James finds reports of a dozen hit and runs suddenly stamped with a solution.

“...Ah.”

“You should see him with smokers.”

The smile is too knowing for Ryan’s level of comfort, hand itching to go to the pocket his new pack is held in. The biker slips his mind without a second thought. The eyesore bumps shoulders with him, whispers.

“I won’t tell him, I promise.”

It’s enough to drag a slightly surprised smile out of Ryan, even though he has no clue as to why. The bank looms up ahead as they turn the street. Ramsey puts his hand on the van door, stops and turns back. He glances back over all of them, checking one last time to assure they’re all ready. The Fakes seem unnaturally eager, twitchy, rabid animals hungry for blood.

In all honesty, Ryan is too.

With the confidence of a man considerably younger and larger than him, Ramsey flings open the door, stepping out onto the burning pavement. The two up front hurry to flank him as he marches to the bank’s doors, casual arrogance soaking in his every step. The eyesore gestures and Ryan falls in step beside him, watching Ramsey’s back as he shoves open the doors with a loud bang, a sound immediately outstripped as he turns into the lobby, fires a bullet into the fancy ceiling. It nearly hits one of the chandeliers. People scream, drop to the ground. The younger three race forward, feral dogs snapping their fangs at anyone who comes near. Ramsey stops almost in the dead center of the massive space, intimidating in his calm. Ryan stops just past the ATMs, just barely keeping himself from leaning on the wall, rifle held comfortably in his arms as he scans the crowd. They’re terrified, trembling as they stare at him, at the three young beasts, at the man who rules them all. It’s intoxicating.

“Everyone just stay calm, come lie down in a nice little kumbaya circle in the center of the room. You all know the drill. Don’t do anything fucking stupid and you all will step out of here with only mild trauma.”

The redhead slaps something on the gated door at the far end, steps back. It glows blinding bright, taking care of the lock in seconds. Thermite, whether bought or made. Ryan hums quietly to himself, wondering if any of them have the patience to actually make it. No way the redhead does, not with that temper. The door swings open, the next door done equally quick as the eyesore takes potshots at the tellers. The redhead and the Brit charge down the steps insides, gunfire echoing up after them. The eyesore stays where he is. Back out with Ryan in the lobby, Ramsey leans against the central table, a crowned king. He doesn’t seem concerned. 

Ryan turns his attention momentarily back to the doors behind him, curious to see how quickly the precinct will respond. Someone has to have heard the gunshots. He turns back in just enough time to see it, one of the guards scrambling to his feet, trying to go for Ramsey. Without hesitation, the crime boss raises his .50 caliber, removes the man’s head with a bullet between the eyes to the screams of the civilians. 

“Fucking rude. See, this is what happens when you don’t listen to what the guy with the gun is telling you.”

He’s distracted, he doesn’t see the second getting up, going for his gun. The eyesore can’t tell, not from this angle, but Ryan can. Time slows to a crawl, heart pumping in his ears. Ramsey could die right now, the head honcho taken down in an instant by a civilian. All of this could be done with. Instead, the Vagabond moves, roars. He doesn’t go for his pistol, doesn’t raise his rifle.

He goes for the knife.

The guard gurgles as the steel buries into his throat. The screams grow louder as he slumps, gun not even out of its holster as his hands change course to go for his throat, the death throes of a choking man. Ramsey’s attention turns to him, watching for a second before putting him out of his misery with a bullet to the head. The sigh that comes from him is one of annoyance, of added tedium, not of a man who almost died. Ryan’s head is starting to swim, a sting of pain shooting up from his shoulder. Ramsey circles to the dead man, reaches down to take the blade. 

Before he can, they both hear the sirens. Almost simultaneously, the earpieces crackle to life.

“On our way up! Lil J, come help take one of these fucking things!”

The eyesore launches into motion, disappearing down the steps and reappearing seconds later with a thick duffle bag slung across his back. Then the redhead with another. Then the Brit, shining gold weapon in his hand. Ryan turns, hurries back to the door, Ramsey just behind him. A glance outside reveals at least six cars, cops ducking behind them for cover. Ramsey doesn’t hesitate, shoves open the door enough to fire. A few officers drop, headless as the bullets find their mark. Ryan follows his lead, manages to hit a few with the rifle despite how his heart is racing, how everything seems to be hazy around the edges. Bless his desert practice. The three kids clear even more as they shove past, piling back into the van. Ramsey and Ryan wind up shoved against each other as the Brit grinds the vehicle into gear, both of them clinging to their seats. Ramsey’s not focusing on the terrifying ride though.

“Jack, Jack how’s it going?”

The van clips a now abandoned police car as it swerves past that particular blockade, out onto the streets. Their earpieces fill with sound, chopping air and laughter.

“Better than you idiots I think! Find somewhere to stop, I’ll be there.”

The Brit finds it quick enough, an open crossroads. Ryan opens his mouth to protest before a roar fills the air around them, perfectly in time with the sound in his ear. A helicopter.

“Hope you guys have your parachutes!”

The others laugh, Ryan caught up in the commotion as wind buffers one side of the van, forcing them to get out the other side. A helicopter lowers from the sky above, the driver waving at them from the pilot’s seat. It doesn’t even touch the ground fully, bags tossed into the helicopter with the Fakes following in after. Jeremy follows last, tossing something into the van as he runs towards them. Ryan reacts instinctively, hanging onto the rigging as he reaches out and grabs his hand, helping him up into the machine. His arm feels too loose as Jeremy nearly launches in, the world spinning worse now, forcing Ryan to sit back down. Within seconds they’re gone, up into the clouds. Just before they vanish, Ryan can see the van burst into flames. 

Around him, the Fakes seem to erupt in joy. The redhead hangs nearly half out of the copter, sun caught on his face and in his curls, head thrown back in a feverish cry of victory, interwoven with joy. Ramsey throws his arms around the pilot as best he can, hugs him, shouting something Ryan can’t quite make out. The Brit is smiling, staring out at the sky like it’s his to own. Jeremy is breathless, laughing, smiling. Jeremy. The eyesore.

His heart thuds, everything seems too bright. He realizes he’s laughing too.

Whatever. Jeremy. 

“Where are we going?!”

He has to shout a little. That breathless smile turns onto him, opens to shout back.

“Safehouse! Cops’ll be all over the streets for a while!”

Ramsey’s swapped out his earpiece for a headset. It’s a different frequency, Ryan can’t make out the words, though by his laughter, apparently the pilot can. The redhead leans back in, slams the door shut. It’s quieter now. Ryan laughs a little, the words spilling from his mouth and brain like oil. Adrenaline wears off, pain fills his head like cotton.

“Cops’ll do their patterns up to a radius. Might send a helicopter once they hear that we’re in one that _landed in the middle of the fucking street_ , but they won’t go outside their radius.”

Eyes are on him, amused, curious.

“Yeah, how you so sure?”

“They’re all the same, no matter the city, no matter the continent. They follow their rules and patterns and won’t deviate too much. Ants in an anthill.”

It isn’t a lie. Jeremy laughs, knocks their knees together.

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Doesn’t seem like your motto.”

He shrugs, his smile shines like the sun.

“Better to have Geoff have his weird shit. We all go there, everything gets counted, we get paid, and you can go right back to wherever you’re hiding out in the city.”

Ryan nods, his brain barely catches the words. The Brit is watching him closely but he can’t figure out why. There’s something wet dripping down onto his hand. Jeremy’s smile is fading, noticing something he’s not. He would ask why but darkness is closing in around his eyes. A nap might not be bad.

“Holy shit, you’re bleeding. Fuck, Jack we need to set down somewhere, he’s bleeding.”

And then everything just sort of slips away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy day after Halloween! I'm gonna try not to pass out now. Notice something a little different about this chapter in comparison to others? :3

Ryan wakes in the dark. For a minute he considers the possibility that he's dead, or maybe just back in his bed, magically okay. Then he tries to move and a swift lance of pain smashes through him, removing either of those ideas from the table. He viciously curses his way through the agony, startling the person he now realizes was sleeping in a chair across from him. Even in the relative dark he can make out purples and yellows and other gaudy colors. He's not wearing his hat, his hair beneath where it could have been is a bright neon green. Despite himself, Ryan laughs, a noise quickly silenced by pain. Of course his hair is green. The sound seems to startle his companion a little, the laugh much lighter than any previous.

“Oh hey, you’re up! You passed out in the helicopter. We had to dig a bullet out of the mess on your shoulder. Could’ve told us you got shot.”

He shrugs weakly, attempts to sit up before quickly giving up again, electing to just lie on his back and suffer. Fuck he hurts.

“Didn’t matter. Couple weeks old.”

“Yeah that’s what Caleb said. You didn’t even take it out or stitch it up though man, what the hell?”

Ryan really would prefer not to talk about this.

“S’just a bullet.”

That drags a disbelieving laugh out of the eyesore. Out of Jeremy. Might as well. It’s a nicer sound than the vague hurt Ryan can’t quite pinpoint in his voice.

“Don’t let Geoff hear that. He bitches for _ages_ whenever he gets shot.”

“Mmm.”

Ryan lifts the hand on his uninjured arm to rub at his face, discovering that his mask is still in place. He makes a noise of mild disbelief, catching Jeremy’s grin out of the corner of his eye. Jeremy shifts, turns on a lamp by his head. The light casts odd shadows on the ceiling.

“C’mon man, we aren’t that rude, your privacy is your privacy. You take off that spooky ass thing when and if you want, we aren’t gonna make you. Or at least most of us won’t. Gav might try if he keeps being weird but that’s just sorta him and you’re bigger than he is so...y’know.”

He chatters for a bit more, filling the space with companionable noise as he tracks down a bottle of water from somewhere next to the bed, a few tablets of some kind or another. They’re pressed into Ryan’s good hand, the water left within easy reach.

“Here, these’ll help with the pain. I’ll leave you alone, you can just come on out whenever you’re ready. Your jacket’s by the door and we sorta had to mutilate your shirt a bit to get at everything so there’s another one there too. It’s Jack’s so it might fit. Your arm’s probably gonna scar but hey, even a badass like you has to get more than one eventually. Nice tat by the way.”

He’s gone before Ryan can register what the hell he means. Once the door shuts he pulls the mask off, taking paint and god knows what else with it. The painkillers are difficult to put in him but they kick in fast enough, allowing him to sit up and look over his surroundings and more importantly, himself. The room is fairly large, big and subtly expensive. An open window shines out into the desert, into the nighttime sky. There’s a dresser, a mirror above it, the chair Jeremy was sitting in, his jacket folded over the back. With effort, he manages to get up make his way towards the dresser.

Immediately, Ryan almost laughs at his reflection. He looks like absolute hell. His facepaint is smeared, ruined, black and red and white in one big ugly mess. The inside of his mask is probably equally as terrible. The entire upper right side of his shirt is essentially gone, his arm bandaged carefully with the neat black stitches just barely visible through. A touch to it reveals it still hurts, a vague sting in the back of his head despite the heavy lull of painkillers. The scab has been cleared away, probably torn when he threw the knife now that he thinks about it.

A good long while to bleed out, from then to the helicopter. No wonder he passed out. A tiny thrill passes through him as he thinks about it. It’s been so many years since he threw a knife, but it came back, just like the simile, but with sharp steel instead of spoked tires, weaponry instead of transport. He changes his train of thought, carefully takes off the remnants of his shirt, uses it to wipe his face mostly clean, does the same with his mask. It’s still a train wreck, he’ll be spending a good long while working on getting it all off back home, but it’s good enough for now.

He looks back up to his reflection, his cleaned up mess of an arm, one of the now two visible scars on his torso, the only other noticeable one a burn closer to his left hip from an embarrassing incident involving alcohol and attempted college dinner feast. One of the main reasons he doesn’t drink anymore. Another, the tattoo on his inner forearm, the twin masks of comedy and tragedy. A drunken party after a successful show that he remembers nothing about except waking up back in his dorm with that tattoo, and a few other...physical alterations.

Ryan shakes his head, rubs at his cleared face, looks away. He’s tired and sore, no time to be considering old stupid shit he did as a drunk kid. It’s a hassle to get the replacement shirt on, a bit tight in the shoulders but otherwise fine. It smells like laundry soap and diesel oil. He feels better once he manages to get his jacket zipped up, feeling bigger and stronger. The mask still feels like it’s sticking with scrubbed paint but he needs it, he needs to stay anonymous. One last glance at the mirror reveals the Vagabond, a beast of a man who got shot and forgot about it until just now. Ryan’s pale flesh shines out around the eyeholes, muddled with smeared black. His eyes look tired but hard, appropriately done with his surroundings. With a mild sigh he straightens his shoulders as much he can and steps out.

The light is off in the hallway. He follows the glow of a light down it to a open living area. He passes a closed door, the sound of a shower. When he steps out into the living room, only the Brit is there, who looks up at him before going back to rummaging through what Ryan recognizes as his bag. He takes a step forward, opens his mouth to protest, and then the Brit starts talking. His sunglasses are still on his head, resting in his rat’s nest hair.

“Lil J’s offered to drive you back once he gets out of the shower. You lost your knife.”

Did Ramsey not manage to pull his knife back out of the guard? Damn. The Brit pulls another gun from his bag, admires it, drops it back in. He moves to the side pockets, rummages through them. Ryan doesn’t think there’s anything in there but suddenly the Brit pulls out handcuffs. Not just any handcuffs, LSPD-sanctioned cuffs, the logo stamped by the lock. He freezes, blood running cold in his veins. The Brit holds them up, they shine in the light. For a second he examines the logo, scrutinizes the metal, and then he _laughs_.

“Had some fun with the cops before we picked you up huh? Not very unique, we all have a set of these. LSPD’s shit at keeping a hand on them.”

He tosses them back into the bag like they’re nothing. Ryan quietly lets go of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He crosses his arms as gently as he can.

“You going to stop digging through my bag now? Some people believe in privacy.”

The Brit glances up at him, at his mask, nods with a bit of a smile. The bag is shoved away, towards Ryan.

“Of course.”

They stay there in silence for a minute more. Ryan turns his attention to the rest of the room, examining. There’s a doorway across into a dining area and past that, into a kitchen. Someone’s moving around in there but he doesn’t care much to go find out who. The shower shuts off behind him, he turns around in just enough time to catch sight of Jeremy walking out of the bathroom, still damp, a colorful towel clutched around his waist. Ryan’s glad for his mask, for the blush that spreads over his face. Jeremy’s strong, coiled muscle and stocky edges, scars of bullets and cuts and ones he can’t quite identify. He looks like he’s caught the edge of one too many buildings, though Ryan isn’t sure why. He doesn’t notice Ryan staring, simply makes his way back to one of the rooms and shuts the door after him. When he emerges he’s dressed, a darker green shirt and jeans that are maybe just a shade too bright to match. He grins brightly at Ryan, none the wiser.

“Ready to go?”

Ryan just grunts in the positive, still slightly flustered. It comes off as gruffness, though Jeremy doesn’t seem to take it to heart. He skirts around Ryan, throws on a sweatshirt and picks up Ryan’s bag with ease. Ryan doesn’t really have it in him to protest, instead just following as he goes out, swings up into the cab of a truck, tossing Ryan’s bag into the floor space beside him. It’s a little audacious, there’s a stripe of purple down the hood, but it’s not the worst thing out there. Ryan gets up into the passenger’s seat, looking out the window as they pull out of the driveway, head back towards town. It’s not a road he knows, and Jeremy takes seemingly random turns, forcing Ryan to lose track of the way there. He smiles apologetically.

“Sorry, boss’s orders. He likes that place.”

“It’s fine.”

They ride in relative silence. Jeremy chatters idly over the sound of the radio, doesn’t really expect Ryan to respond. He appreciates it, tired and weak and not really in the mood for words. After a little while they pull into that parking lot, Ryan’s Zentorno nearly hidden in the shadows. He gets a hand on the door handle before Jeremy reaches over, rests a hand on his shoulder, light and obvious enough that he doesn’t jump. Ryan turns back to look at him, the raised eyebrow clear in his body language.

“Hey, you saved my boss man. I wanted to tell you thank you. Here.”

He pats around in his pockets, pulls out a pill bottle and then a bound stack of cash, almost as thick as his hand. He pushes them into Ryan’s hands.

“Pills are for the pain. You’ll get wired your cut but this is a bit of mine. You deserve it. Without you there, I wouldn’t have any of this, or Geoff.”

His smile is soft, edged with something that Ryan doesn’t want to think about. He takes the items without a word, sticks them into the pocket of his jacket. The next thing Jeremy holds out is a slip of paper. There’s a number on it.   
“Um, so you probably won’t get called on any heavy-hitter jobs until Jack thinks your arm should probably be healed but if you want to cause a little lowkey mayhem or make a little extra cash or whatever...This is my number, okay? Send a text or whatever. Keep you sharp while you’re healing up.”

Ryan nearly doesn’t take the number but something inside his chest compels him. He nods, folds it carefully.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, change that bandage regularly, okay? You’re gonna fuck it up worse if you don’t.”

He waits until Ryan’s gotten into the Zentorno to drive away, waving one last time. Once he’s gone Ryan pulls off the mask again, rubs at his face. He realizes that he’s smiling, bright and wide. It makes him want to laugh.

_Fuck._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have homework to do that's worth half my grade. What am I doing instead? Writing this. This is better.

It takes Jeremy three days after Ryan first texts him to figure out that there’s a skull emoji. No less than seven texts Ryan gets that day contain at least one. He doesn’t quite understand why Jeremy insists on texting him even if they aren’t planning to do anything but a part of him can’t quite bring himself to mind.

Alone in the apartment, he feels more and more like James, tired, scared, hurt, but the one who smiles at Jeremy’s texts, occasionally texts back, is without a doubt Ryan. He doesn’t text much, just once to start the conversation and then maybe two or three times since then. When he discovers a makeshift patch on the inside of his jacket, where the bullet went through, he texts Jeremy, gets a hesitating admittance that he did his best to patch it in return. James was going to leave it, didn’t see the point, but now he sorta feels like maybe he should dig out his ancient sewing kit, fix it properly.

At the same time, he just sort of wants to leave Jeremy’s handiwork. He doesn’t think about that too much.

Two weeks after waking up in the safehouse, Jeremy finally texts him about something work related, in a certain sense, telling him to get dressed and meet him across from the Rob’s Liquor on San Andreas Ave, not too far from the pier. Something about the way he words it seems to imply that he’d like it if Ryan showed up in more casual clothing than what he’s seen him in so far. Ryan goes in his normal attire anyways, not quite comfortable enough to go maskless just yet. He has to tuck his hair behind his ears as he puts the mask on, eyeing his growing hair in the mirror. No time for a haircut, might as well just let it be.

Jeremy snorts when he sees him, unsurprised but definitely tipping more towards amused than upset. He crosses his arms, leans back against the wall in the alley they’re now lurking in.

“Y’know, you sorta make it hard to do the whole ‘subtlety’ thing. Couldn’t even go for sunglasses and a bandanna?”

Ryan just stares at him. It just makes him laugh again, his broad shoulders shaking in amusement. Jeremy, Ryan realizes, is a very happy human being. He’s not sure what to make of that. He’s also not certain what to make of the gaudy patterned shirt Jeremy’s wearing over his jeans, a fact that he makes known when it doesn’t seem like the shorter man’s going to stop giggling anytime soon. Jeremy just shrugs, still smiling brighter than the sun.

“Listen, you try being colorblind without the patience to label all your clothes. Besides, it’s my thing, like your mask.”

Ryan really doesn’t have a good argument for that. He feels like he’s learning a bit too much about his goddamn target than he should be. James is sort of trying to get the Fakes arrested after all.

A pang shoots through his heart with that thought, feeling far too much like guilt for his comfort. Instead he just looks down the alley in the direction of the liquor store.

“What are we doing here?”

“We’re keeping you in shape. Couple lowkey robberies ‘n shit. We do them for fun now and again and it’s just sorta fun. I was thinking that we do Rob’s, and then go down to the gas station off Vespucci and then just see where we go from there. No guns aside from showing them off, just a lot of driving. Can show off my driving skills, which we might need to do with you sorta sticking out like a sore thumb.”

Ryan doesn’t really see that much wrong with that. He nods, gestures for Jeremy to lead the way, which he does with great enthusiasm. People keep their distance as the Vagabond emerges from the shadows of the alley, trailing a short young man with scars on his arms and danger in his eyes. The man behind the counter sees Jeremy enter, looks like he’s going for a gun before Ryan steps in behind him, big and intimidating and jacket already open, fingers already around the gun in its holster. Jeremy starts to chatter idly again as people make noise outside, it seems to be a habit of his, but he doesn’t really seem to expect either Ryan or the cashier

to respond. Once the bag of cash gets tossed to him he thanks the cashier, smashes the glass of the counter to steal a handful of items, and then pops out the door without a second thought. Ryan takes long enough to reach over and take the gun from behind the counter too before he follows. A shotgun, not a bad type. Probably expensive.

There are sirens far away as he slides in beside Jeremy in an Adder that is very clearly his, purple with orange stripes. He’s fairly certain there’s a police station near here, which amuses him in a way he can’t quite figure out. The engine _roars_ , heavy and modified as they tear away, driving recklessly enough that Ryan feels the need to grab onto the door.

“You’re not impressing with me with your driving skills.”

Jeremy _laughs_. It’s contagious, makes Ryan’s laughter bubble in his chest. He shoves it down, examines the plastic bag in his lap instead as Jeremy jokes about how he never claimed his driving skills were any good, just that he was going to show them off. Inside there's the money, not much, a few handfuls of twenties and odd change, alongside with the items Jeremy grabbed. Snacks, a few odds and ends, and a few new packs of cigarettes, the last makes Ryan glance up to him, but Jeremy seems to understand his question before he asks it.

“I use ‘em now and again but I figured you might not have been able to get some lately. Consider it a resupply.”

He's not wrong and something about that bewilders Ryan. It's so casual, so calm, a gift to a relative stranger.

The Adder swerves into the gas station, nearly clipping one of the pumps as he swings in, leaves the car running as he hops out, confident that no one would _dare_ steal such a recognizable car. Ryan follows after him, a guard dog struck silent by an increasing sense of disbelief.

This cashier has even less money, no weaponry. The sirens are getting louder. Jeremy tosses a few twenties at the poor terrified girl before grabbing a few cases of beer and returning to the car. A police car is already there when they step out. Jeremy doesn't hesitate, pulls out his pistol and empties it in the general direction the car. Ryan levels the stolen shotgun at the car, still in his hands, unloads the rounds into the hood and windows and whatever else happens to appear in his sight as he gets in beside Jeremy. They sideswipe the car as they drive out, knocking it hard without even slowing down the Adder. Armored.

From there they go north, back towards the pier, another Rob’s further north, a quick in-and-out off Prosperity Street and the sirens are getting closer and closer, faster and larger response with each store. Jeremy turns the car in a way that shouldn’t be possible, nearly spinning out as they merge onto the _wrong side_ of the freeway, up towards the Great Ocean Highway. The cars swerve to get around them as they drive down the center, the cops hesitating to follow. Jeremy flashes a feral grin at him and he realizes that they’re both laughing, breathless, wild.

“You wanna do something really stupid?”

“Why not?”

The window next to him rolls down and Jeremy gestures to the glove compartment.

“There’s a rifle in there. Help us lose our tail, I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t know why he trusts Jeremy but the next thing he knows he’s leaning out the window, firing at the few cars gutsy enough to follow them as Jeremy drives even more recklessly, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding onto Ryan’s shirt, keeping him close to the car. The frontmost car’s wheel explodes as a bullet pierces it, spinning out and causing a cascade effect of civilians and police alike. Ryan fires a few more times, unsure what he hits before the sirens start to die off and Jeremy tugs on his shirt, encouraging him back into the car. After that it’s a blur until suddenly Ryan finds them sitting side by side next to the pier in Chumash, Jeremy gleefully drinking some of his stolen beer. He offers Ryan one and despite his proclivities, he finds himself accepting, setting it in the sand beside him. Jeremy sips, smiles at him.

“You’re a lot more fun than the guys think, y’know that? I think if you were a little less creepy they’d like you. Would probably help if you didn’t push Michael so much and maybe laughed more like you did back there versus that freaky excuse of a thing you keep doing around all of them.”

Ryan snorts, shakes his head.

“What makes you think I’m not just that creepy? Nothing stopping me from killing you here and now aside from the contract I have with your boss.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s just a rumor, it’s hard to get a job if you kill everyone you work for, I know that from experience. Same way I’m pretty sure you’ve never stuck a guy in a hole before.”

He sounds confident, assured in a way James has never quite felt and a way that Ryan longs to feel.

“No, but it’s not a bad idea. I like the name.”

They look out at the water, at the sun that’s beginning to dip towards the horizon. James glances down at the beer in the sand before him, Ryan looks over to the man beside him, coiled danger in a compacted form.

“Why the hell are you doing all this? Usually people I work for don’t put this much effort into spending time with me. Gutting people tends to have that effect.”

“You saved my boss.”

The succinct belief of the answer stops Ryan in his metaphorical tracks.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I mean...Listen, if you ever tell anyone this I _will_ kill you but this crew’s saved my ass more times than I can count and to be honest? I used to do a lot of the wandering shit you do until Geoff dragged my sorry ass out of a car wreck and offered me a job. Consider this my version of a job interview. Without you Geoff would be dead and I think that means you deserve a chance to see what the crew does outside of just heists and jobs. Same as me.”

Ryan doesn’t have a good response to that. He goes for one of the packs that sit between them, fiddles with the plastic. He can’t smoke with his mask down but his hands are starting to shake, trying to process. He takes a deep breath, eyes Jeremy who’s very clearly trying not to watch him.

“This stays between us.”

“The crew doesn’t even know I’m with you.”

He pulls up the mask. When it blocks his vision he just pulls it off entirely. He knows Jeremy is staring at his face, at the paint marring any clear vision of his features. It helps him feel a little bit more comfortable, still anonymous. After a few seconds of staring Jeremy smiles, politely turns his attention back out to the waves.

“Didn’t peg you for a blond.”

“Didn’t peg you for _green_.”

He shrugs, fishes out a lighter to hand it to Ryan. The smoke curls into the air between them.

“Told you, it’s my thing. Though I’m thinking about going for blue next time, or whatever the box tells me is blue.”

Ryan hums, nods.

“It’ll be less gaudy than the green.”

“Says the guy who’s face is melting.”

Ryan’s gloved hand goes up to his face. It’s not bad, not like when he got shot, but paint comes off onto his hand when he pulls it away. Still covered but less so than before. He frowns down at it, debates the merits of putting the mask back on before deciding that it’s not enough to make it worth it.

They sit in companionable silence for a while more, as comfortable as Jeremy’s quiet chatter, working their way through a case of beer and half a pack before Jeremy finally says that he needs to get back to the crew, already starting to pick up after himself. Ryan can feel the buzz of alcohol in the back of his head but Jeremy seems less affected, waiting for Ryan to follow him back across the sand to where the car is. Ryan slips the mask back on before he steps out of the shadows of the pier, Jeremy doesn’t seem to mind. He drops Ryan back off at that same alley, waves before driving off. When he’s back home, makeup off and in bedclothes, James realizes that he never once felt out of place with Jeremy.

The pang of guilt smashes through him again but he ignores it, comfortable as he checks his phone one last time for any more texts, then sleeps. The next day he goes to that same Rob’s off San Andreas Ave, curious as to what a store post-robbery looks like. He doesn’t buy anything, but he walks out of the store with a couple travel bottles in his pocket. The cashier nearly pulled a shotgun on him last time he was here, he doesn’t feel that bad about it.

A week later Jeremy texts him with a new address, a new time. Earlier in the day, in Rockford Hills instead of by the pier. He adds a few different places to their stops instead of just some convenience stores. A jewelers, Ponsonbys, a beauty shop, taking items instead of cash. Diamonds, a new jacket, some hair dye. Later, Ryan discovers makeup sealant in the bag alongside the dye. They drive through Vinewood as they escape, Jeremy laughingly flips off Pacific Standard as they drive by it. Their increased activity makes a helicopter join the chase. Jeremy reveals a rocket launcher stashed in the backseat in response. It takes Ryan a minute to figure out how to use it but the punch of the rocket escaping nearly throws him from the car if not for Jeremy’s hold on him. The copter explodes into reds and oranges and Ryan feels his heart launch into his throat, awed by the force and the colors. The jitters in his hands are excitement now. It doesn’t even occur to him that there’s no way anyone survived that.

They hide at the race track, sitting, laughing, Ryan unable to keep up a scrap of the tough facade in the face of such vehement glee. He even lets Jeremy check his shoulder, assure himself that the force of the rocket didn’t tear his arm open again. The pat to his leg once the smaller man is assured makes his heart jolt in a way he can’t quite describe. It’s different from when Jeremy calls him Vagabond, unsure what to call him other than that. How strange, to see something as intimate as the criminal without his mask before knowing his name. Ryan nearly tells him twice that night. Instead he lets Jeremy try on his mask after three beers and a shared cigarette. He laughs when Jeremy grumbles that it smells too much like rubber for his tastes.

Their adventure makes the news that night. James watches with something close to sick fascination as the woman behind the desk talks, grainy footage of the Adder racing past, Ryan hanging halfway out the window, the Vagabond bringing down the helicopter in a streak of smoke and a blast of red. His heart races again, not from panic but amazement at how even with the shitty camera footage makes the explosion look like nothing he’s ever seen. His phone buzzes with a text, Jeremy with a series of little emojis that resemble explosions. Another text after that admitting that they can’t do this again for a while, apparently the other Fakes are not appreciative of their youngest member spending time alone with the dangerous Vagabond. He can’t really blame them but the odd exasperation clear in the words of the texts makes him want to laugh.

He goes to sleep that night with a smile on his face. In the morning he has another text.

It’s not from Jeremy. It’s from Barb. Simple and to the point.

_You need to come in._

He almost ignores it. Then two more come in. From Kdin, almost like the tech read his mind from so far away.

_Bring something to defend yourself if you drop by._

_Captain’s on his toes, assume it’s got to do with you. Might get worse._

James sighs, stares at his ceiling for a second. He has to, he’s a cop, he’s bringing the Fakes down. He’s a good guy who listens to orders and comes in when he’s told.

His mind wanders to the stack of cash Jeremy gave him, tucked under his bed with all the rest. He hasn’t told anyone else about it. Something in him grumbles that he shouldn’t have to. That he got that money fair and square, given from a friend.

A friend. Someone who’s spent the last three weeks keeping him company and getting him things he shouldn’t. A criminal, a murderer, a monster.

A gentle soul who gives money to poor scared cashiers and checks Ryan’s shoulder like he’s worried about him. James swallows weakly, Ryan nods.

A friend.

He gets out of bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should mention that I personally am not colorblind, just really like that headcanon for GTA Jeremy. Sorry if I fucked it up at all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was barely awake writing this but ah well

It feels a little like a death sentence, walking up to the doors of the precinct. Oddly enough despite it all he doesn’t feel dread, just a vague sense of frustration at being dragged in again so soon. He’s fairly certain that regular undercover people rarely come in, not every month or so.

The door opens seconds before he can reach for it, revealing that same unrecognizable officer from the last time he was in. His hair is shorter, more in code, spiked up messily, and it makes James want to reach up to touch his own growing blond. The officer gives him that same smile as before, scrutinizing him like he’s some fascinating creature pinned down beneath his gaze, a sharp wild energy in his eyes. This time though, he speaks. 

“Hi there. You’re, uh, you’re one of the officers who works here, right? Haywood?”

Slightly caught off guard by the way the man speaks, a bit breathy and distracted but with an undercurrent of energy that seems ready to build to crescendo, it takes him a second to answer.

“Oh, um, yeah. I’m Ryan.”

For some reason, his introduction just splits the officer’s smile into something twice as big.

“Ryan, nice to meet you. See you around.”

And then he brushes past, disappears down the street. He’s gone before James realizes his mistake. It stops him in his tracks for a second before he does what he’s been doing a lot in the last month or so, shoving it away to deal with never. It’s less crowded inside than it has been in the past, a relatively nice day outside. He works his way back to Barb’s desk, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he can get away with just talking to her. She gives him a look as he comes up, not quite disapproving but enough to make him feel like a kid stepping up to his teacher’s desk with his hands out for the ruler. He drops into the seat beside her, tries to slink down until he’s invisible. She levels a pen at him, the cap dropped from her mouth as she speaks.

“You’re lucky I don’t dump your ass in front of the Captain’s office right now. He’s angry and he’s taking it out on all the rest of us.”

“That sucks. I got shot.”

“Great for you.”

Both of them look at each other for a minute, Barb scrutinizing him the same way the odd officer did, though he feels like she sees a whole lot less somehow. He smiles at her, shrugs a little. It doesn’t seem to help his case. Her look darkens into a glower.

“Ass, Captain, move it Haywood.”

He sighs, pushes back out of the chair with a slight twinge to his arm. Still sore, though Jeremy said it looked good when he checked it. Theoretically he knows best, what with the multiple bullet wounds and all. 

The Captain is, as Barb told him, _furious_. James elects not to give him the sheepish smile that threatens the corners of his mouth. Instead he just sits in the chair, lets him shout, starting to simmer with that same frustration inside. The Captain’s just sitting here in his fucking office, what place does he have to tell James about his job, to tell _Ryan_ how to do his fucking job. He’s the one who got shot, who’s been out and about doing things. The overheads are back up and that makes James feel a lot less like this is an interrogation and more like a parent scolding and somehow, that just makes him angrier. 

“You’re supposed to be working to stop civilian murders Haywood, not causing more of them.”

“I’m just doing my job sir.”

“You blew up a fucking _helicopter_ Haywood, not to mention a twelve-car pileup on the GOH. Eight people, _including other cops_ , died in both of those. Not to mention the fucking security footage of you putting a knife in some rent-a-cop at the Pacific Standard. That knife is in evidence lockup now Haywood, you’re fucking lucky that there was no evidence on it or we’d be in a lot more fucking trouble than we are now.”

That makes him pause. Ryan wasn’t expecting to lose the knife, James more than once handled it with his bare hands. There should have been evidence everywhere, who could have removed it? He shakes his head, breathes through his nose to calm down, has a very brief fantasy about the Captain gutted and bleeding out onto his stupid reports. Through some magic, his voice stays even, slow and steady, no stuttering, no pausing.

“With all due respect sir, I’m doing what you told me to do. What I’m doing now can help stop dozens of murders in the future, right? I wasn’t the one driving when the pileup happened and the other cops were the ones who chose to follow us. If I hadn’t blown up the helicopter the Fake I was with would have been suspicious of me. As for the rent-a-cop, he chose to do that. He didn’t have to. Ramsey didn’t shoot anyone that didn’t come after him and if he had killed Ramsey, none of the Fakes would have trusted me and one of them would have just taken his place. They all need to go down at once, or they don’t go down at all.”

The Captain’s staring at him, at the calm calculation in his eyes. He doesn’t look like he recognizes whatever he sees there, doesn’t look like he recognizes the man in the seat before him. James is suddenly reminded of just how much younger the Captain is than him. Power-hungry, climbing to a position and getting a shovel of shit on your head. Catching the Fakes. How bad would it look for him, should this all come to light? A sneer twitches the corners of his face, he bites his cheek until he tasted blood to keep it down, swallows, pushes forward.

“You got the money they wired from the heist and the job, right sir? Put that money to good use, give reparations to the families of those who died. Repurpose blood money into money for the people.”

Something in the way the Captain frowns tells him that’s not possible, the money’s already gone, precinct funds and all that. New lights for the Captain’s office, funded on the blood of the innocent and guilty alike. Stepping stones, bones beneath their feet. Sick churns in his stomach, not nausea like he felt during those first few outings but instead the dark sick twist of knowing that he’s not the only hypocrite here. The Captain leans back in his chair, crosses his arms. 

“We’ll see what we can do. In the meantime you better have some _damn_ good information for me.”

Ryan seethes. It’s barely been a month. Fuckhead. James nods.

“Not much sir. They took me to a safehouse after the heist but I don’t know where it is. Every other interaction they’ve met me somewhere in the city.”

“Nothing else? Names, family members, traceable cash, something?”

Ramsey, Jack, Michael, Gav, _Jeremy_. The wad of cash under his bed. Beer and cigarettes in the sand next to the pier, beside the dirt of the track. Laughter, bumping shoulders, warm smiles. Scars with stories to tell. He folds his hands, looks solemn.

“No sir.”

A sigh, a long pause. James speaks as soon as the Captain opens his mouth.

“If I might suggest something sir, I’m not going to learn much if I have to come by the precinct every time something happens. They might get suspicious. If you don’t mind, I’d like to space them out. I can send updates to Barb or Kdin if I get something worthwhile but outside of that, showing up at the precinct should probably only happen rarely, if something is big enough to break the case.”

He hopes he sounds as confident as the nugget of condensed fury in his chest is making him feel. Again the Captain is staring him down, examining him like he’s some new beast that he hasn’t seen before. Then he nods.

“Fine, whatever. Tell Dunkleman and get out of my office.”

James does, gladly. Barb still looks a little annoyed at her desk, but he does his best to smile at her, soothe her. He isn’t sure it works, so he just talks instead.

“He seems like he’s calmed down. Hopefully he’ll get off your back now.”

“You better hope so.”

He just flashes her an apologetic smile, already heading back towards his relatively empty desk. His little bonsai is there, looking a little out of sorts. There’s a shoebox tucked under the filing side, something he brought months back in a hurry and never threw out. It’s helpful now as he glances through the drawers, grabbing a family picture, some pens, a few odds and ends that he likes. He can feel Barb’s eyes on the back of his head, turns to catch her gaze, an explanation already flowing from his lips.

“I probably won’t be back for a while, I don’t want to leave anything that I’m going to need later.”

He doesn’t elaborate like he knows he’s supposed to but the confidence in his tone seems to assuage her a little. It’s a bit too smooth. For a split second he thinks of shining steel, stabbed through a hand and into wood, already seeping black with blood. Ryan swallows thickly, shakes his head. Deep breaths, calm thoughts. The precinct suddenly feels stifling. He grabs a little more, leaves his badge and his nametag, heads for the entrance.

Elvis the bonsai nearly tips over in the shoebox as he tries to get the front doors open again. He catches it, straightens it, looks straight up into the eyes of the plainclothes Detective Luna. Luna smiles at him around a sip of coffee. He glances at the little plant, back to him. Again James is struck by the thought of a spider waiting in its web as Luna smiles at him.

“Hey, you still on vacation?”

“Um, yeah, kinda. I think it’s more paid leave at this point.”

Shit is he still getting paid? He hasn’t picked up any checks since he started. There probably isn’t any. Well, hopefully Jeremy’s money can help him pay rent for the next few months. Luna snorts, fixes him with a gaze far too like the officer from earlier for his comfort, manic energy and sharp eyes.

“That reporter that you were talking to last time dropped by like a week ago. I think he was looking for you.”

Why would Jon be looking for him? Is it because of his absence from the precinct? Too many questions, his head hurts. Luna says something about if he was him, he wouldn’t leave someone like that hanging, but James isn’t sure he really wants to talk to anyone anymore right now. Thankfully Luna just shrugs, skirts around him and lets him get past. He gets back in his car as quickly as he can, already going for the pack in the glove compartment. He’s tempted to text Jeremy, see what he’s up to, but if Jeremy’s still in trouble with the Fakes he doesn’t really want to bother him. Instead he finds himself driving up to a Rob’s, grabbing a bottle or two. Not enough to blackout but enough to help him deal with the bullshit that has been this day. So much for staying sober.

When Ryan goes to sleep that night he’s a little tipsy, very tired, worn out and not really in the mood to exist in the world he lives in right then and there. He checks his phone a few times, hopes for a text. He dreams of darkness and quiet, red explosions far off in the sky, silent fireworks filling the world. Dreams of a plethora of purple and orange, just out of the corner of his eye. 

Across Los Santos, two different things happen. On one side of the city, in a corner of a quiet room in a lonely precinct, a certain tech watches a computer light up with warnings, an intruder, a hacker, trying to get through the firewalls. A prompt comes up, a simple yes or no. A no, the firewalls reveal themselves to have teeth, programs built by someone who knows the system far better than this anonymous hacker will ever know. Instead, the tech smiles, clicks yes. The firewalls give with only a little more theatrical effort, the hacker pushes through, probably patting themselves on the back. The tech sits, watches as the personnel files come up, then through to the one locked in the back, the file of one James Ryan Haywood. A laugh, bright eyes shining in the artificial light. A sentence shared with another.

Across the city, a bearded man with a silver ring in his nose waits patiently outside a door, listening to thuds and thumps and pained groans and increasingly loud cursing. When it dies down he opens the door, looks inside to see another, drenched in blood that isn’t his, still cursing mildly as he tosses away the cracked bat in his hands. It’s an admirable view, one he spends a minute examining. The man drenched in blood grumbles a while more, kicks at the mangled mess of what was once a body once more. They’ll have to drag it down to the water before they go. The man picks up a towel, scrubs at his face to get the blood off, then up to his hair, sending salt and pepper hair sticking up at odd angles, still flecked with blood. He’ll need a shower when they get home.

“Feeling better?”

He looks up to the bearded man, smiles a crooked smile. His voice is breathless, distracted, energy coiled to a crescendo. His clothes were once a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Lil bit. S’been a good day, other than this asshole. Think Geoff’s new kid is feeling a little more at home in his skin.”

The bearded man hums, nods, pulls out a tarp for the mess on the floor.

“So we shouldn’t tell him?”

“Nah…”

Two different people, the tech watching the play and the shadow in the rafters above, the same sentiment ringing out into the night.

“Should be interesting to see where it goes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot plot plot plot plot~


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in other news, shoutout to my friend [Novi](http://treasuretrovetrashcan.tumblr.com/) who's a massive help in keeping this fic chugging along.

For a week, there’s nothing. James finds himself dealing increasingly with an emotion he hasn’t felt, or maybe just hasn’t recognized, in a long time. He’s lonely. Deeply, viciously lonely. More than once he finds himself checking the phone, hoping for a text, something, anything. It feels like the longer he goes without interacting, the lonelier he is, the more he feels like plain old boring James. It makes him feel like his body is trying to meld into a suit that doesn’t quite fit anymore and is trying to mend the seams with the knowledge of just how alone he is. 

It’s tempting to go back to Rob’s, to get a few more bottles and solve the problem with drunkenness, he did it in college after all, but the hope that maybe he’ll get another text stops him. Instead he elects to dig out some old weights and the like, setting them out in the living room and taking to using them until he’s exhausted, taking a break, then repeating the cycle. He’s not out of shape, he’s done his best to stay fit while working at his desk in the precinct, but it’s not like he’s overly muscular and it’s not like he has anything better to do.

It helps, a little.

A week and two days after his trip to the precinct, he gets a text. It’s not from Jeremy, but it’s not from Barb or Kdin either. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who it’s from after a couple seconds of examination. 

_Hey asshole you’re lucky you didn’t go after lil J or we’d be seeing your guts spread across the city._

Only one person with that much animosity towards the Vagabond. Ryan wonders with mild amusement if Jeremy got talked into handing his number over or if someone took it. He’s not really in the mood to get another new phone, it’s easier to just let it happen. The texts continue with varying degrees of detail and anger for the next few days, the redhead aiming his anger at the apparent cause. Nothing he can’t handle, not at this rate. In all honesty, it’s better than nothing. 

A week and four days after his trip to the precinct, James realizes he’s nearly out of food. Makes sense, he can’t even remember the last time he went grocery shopping. It couldn’t have been before all of this, right? No way. Not possible.

Right?

The lights of the store are bright and artificial, they hurt his eyes and make his skin itch, that same persistent feeling of not quite fitting. He just grabs a basket, knowing that this means he’ll have to come back sooner rather than later, but right now he just doesn’t want to be here. James works his way up and down the aisles, grabbing necessities and a few other odds and ends. He's just turning the corner, momentarily distracted by pushing his hair out of his face, when he catches sight of them. 

Two of the group, he doesn't recognize. Two women of vastly different height and stature, matching vibrant red hair, hands held together as they chat and laugh with the third in their party. Short, hair now a brilliant blue to match the shirt he's wearing, if a few shades off. 

Jeremy.

James catches himself two steps into a stride towards them, freezing before quickly turning to look at boxes of pasta instead. What is he doing? He’s not masked, he doesn’t have his facepaint, he’s just some weirdo with hair in the frustrating phase between short enough to stay out of the way and long enough to put up, dressed in ratty jeans and an old sweatshirt. Just a random civilian who they don’t know. Who Jeremy doesn’t know. 

He watches them out of the corner of his eye for a while, pretending to examine one of the boxes. Even with just his glasses he can tell they’re armed, always are, but it doesn’t seem like it’s for any purpose other than presumptive protection. The tallest of the two women has a holster just visible under her jacket, only noticeable when she moves her arms too much, Jeremy just has a pistol down the back of his pants. The shortest of the bunch, the petite little woman, has a knife visible when she turns too quickly, the cool air of the building spinning her skirt and revealing the bottom of a fair sized sheath. They look composed, happy, deadly. Jeremy laughs at something one of them says, bright and open.

The ache hits again, that sense of crushing loneliness. James glances up at the bubble of the security camera above them, like it’ll have some answers to his increasingly confusing life. It doesn’t, obviously, he can’t even tell if it’s looking at him. Probably not. With a sigh he tosses the box into his basket and moves on. He wants to go home.

Three days later he gets another text in the middle of one of his increasingly exhausting workouts. He ignores it until he’s done, assuming that it’s another one of the redhead’s angry messages. When he finally does check, sweating and disgusting, he feels sorta bad for putting it off.

It’s from Jeremy.

_Hey, you still in town?_

He frowns a little at that. Why wouldn’t he be? Was Jeremy really concerned that the Vagabond would have skipped town after just a week without a message? Then again, he probably doesn’t inspire that much confidence. James pulls off his shirt, already heading for the shower as he texts back.

_Barely._

The next text comes in almost immediately.

_Great! Have a job if you think you can stick around. Two of us plus supervision, Geoff’s rule._

_And Michael’s._

_And Gavin’s._

_Basically they wouldn’t let me do this unless we had eyes on us._

James finds himself laughing at that. They are protective, aren’t they. He finishes stripping down, turns on the shower. 

_That’s fine. What is it?_

After that it’s just a slew of information, a location, a basic premise. It comes in so fast Ryan has to wonder if Jeremy wrote this down beforehand and is now just copying it over. A location, a time, a basic shakedown but one where they’re probably going to have to make a statement or two. Something to test how well they can work alone when it’s not just minor theft and destruction and death. Ryan agrees in a heartbeat, promising in not so many words to see him there. He looks up at himself in the mirror, grinning like mad. His shoulder is mostly healed, an ugly puckered scar forming over the wound.

The ache is gone. 

He sets his phone down, doesn’t send an update to anyone else. Why should he? It’s just a little job, just the two of them, plus some eyes. The next day he’s suiting up in his mask, in the jacket that feels a little bit too much like home. He’s fixed the rough patch, though some part of him couldn’t throw it away. His face feels a little rough with sealant, but hopefully it works better now. 

Jeremy grins as he swerves up in his Zentorno, rifle over his back, pistol in its holster. His thigh feels a little empty without the knife.

“Hey! Glad you could make it.”

Ryan steps out of the car, snorting a little in amusement, eyes already looking around for a third party. They aren’t far from where they need to be, not this time. Jeremy holds out an earpiece. 

“Warehouse has security cameras, so Gav’s tapped in. He’ll keep us in check once we get there.”

There’s a laugh on his lips and it makes his face light up. It’s all Ryan can do to marvel at it, at the casual excitement there. He pulls the mask off, slips the earpiece into place. Jeremy grins all the broader.

“Hey, your face isn’t melting this time.”

“We’ll see if it sticks.”

Mask back on, both of them into the dark. The earpiece is crackling, live, the knowledge that there’s someone there on the other side of the line without needing to say anything. They pause outside the door, the place they need to get to is on the other side, the asshole they’re shaking down filled with some delusions of grandeur that he can refuse to pay up and still make it through the other side with everything intact. Ramsey wants him alive though, wants to send a different kind of message. They can do that, probably.

Jeremy nearly takes down the door with the force of his kick. The sound sends those inside scrambling for weapons but the two of them are faster. Blood sprays the concrete as those in the first room go down in a spray of bullets. The next, the same, offices and hallways leading towards the warehouse proper. The earpiece stays quiet except that crackle of static and Jeremy’s voice occasionally ringing through as they duck for cover on opposite corners of the room. It’s exaltation, the two of them easily in sync as they decimate the idiot’s protection. One gets too close to Jeremy, Ryan strikes, takes him down with a clip nearly point-blank to the face. The blood sprays across the mask, the jacket, hot and wet.

His friend gladly does the same, both vicious and wild, bloodlust singing in their veins. They’re efficient, deadly, it doesn’t take long. Ryan shoves the door into the final room seconds too late to hear the static finally give way to a warning, just in enough time to catch what feels like a ton of bricks to the chest, throwing him back. He bites down on the cry of pain, his shoulder slammed into the ground but not bleeding, not yet, looks up to see a behemoth in the vague shape of a man, bearing down on him like a raging bull.

He has the wherewithal to roll out of the way, barely missing getting slammed into again. The beast turns, angry, and this time he’s not fast enough, tossed like a ragdoll across the room. Something catches him seconds before he can hit the wall, softening his landing with a grunt of pain. Jeremy. The catch lets him get up quicker, both of them lunging out of the way. The first impact knocked his hold of his weaponry free and out of the corner of his eye he can see Jeremy scrambling for the gun he dropped in favor of catching him. Not enough time and now the behemoth’s attention is on Jeremy. Ryan scrambles, fingers wrapping around something metal and solid. A pipe. He glances at it, the end is broken, sharp. Good, great, perfect. 

Anger and ferocity drive him forward. The man’s got his hand around Jeremy’s throat, knocking his gun aside before he can use it. Ryan puts all his force into it, shoves the jagged metal through flesh with an ugly sucking sound. His guess is right, the makeshift weapon pierces the lung, the heart. The beast shudders, grip suddenly weakening in shock. He drops, Jeremy goes for his gun again, finishes him off with a bullet. They both stand there a second, splattered and panting. Jeremy giggles with adrenaline, glancing over Ryan, who smiles back as best he can through pain, through the mask. Nothing feels torn, not yet anyways. He moves to pick up his guns as quickly as possible.

“Thanks for catching me.”

“Wasn’t going to let my battle buddy rip his arm again. Thanks for totally saving my ass, makes us even.”

The asshole causing all this is cowering, his last serious line of defense gone, hands on a pistol. The shot goes wide and Jeremy puts a bullet through his arm for even trying. There’s anger there, beneath the humor and adrenaline. It’s entrancing. He throws the idiot to the concrete, places his foot against his throat, pushes down hard enough to make the dumbass choke.

“We could kill you right here and now, you know that right?”

His voice is deathly calm. The one beneath him nods as much as he can with his windpipe mostly closed off.

“Know why we’re not?”

A shake this time.

“Because you’re going to pay double for the rest of your sorry fucking life for this and you’re going to let everyone of your little buddies who even _thinks_ he can get away with this precisely what happens and let them know that next time we aren’t going to be so fucking generous. Got it?”

When the response isn’t immediate he pushes a little harder, Ryan can practically hear the throat start to give way.

“ _Got it?_ ”

The nod is immediate now. Jeremy lets him choke a second more before he lets up, turns on his heel. 

“Let’s leave this asshole to clean up the mess.”

They do. Jeremy waits until they’re back to the cars to melt a little, breathing hard, exhausted. Cushioning a considerably larger man’s fall probably isn’t great on the, well, everything. 

“Thanks for the fucking help Gav.”

The static clears again.

“I tried! You two idiots went in too fast, not my fault.”

Something about the indignance of the tone makes Ryan want to laugh again. He just shakes his head in mild amusement instead, settles against the hood of the Adder beside Jeremy. His friend turns a vaguely pained smile onto him.

“Think they’ll let us off the hook again?”

“Don’t think they’ll ever want us off the hook as long as I’m around.”

Jeremy hums, pulls out his earpiece, gestures for Ryan to follow suit. He tosses the both of them into the Adder, locks it with them inside. All it takes is a gesture to the Zentorno.

“C’mon, let’s go steal some decent painkillers and shit.”

Two hours later finds the two of them sitting under one of the letters of the Vinewood sign, the sirens fading into the distance as they wait for the painkillers to kick in, comparing bruises and laughing into the night. They’ve ditched their eyes, they both know that, which means Jeremy’s probably in for a little bit more trouble when he gets back home, but neither of them really mind. Ryan rests his head against his knee, catches himself staring at how the lights of the city catch of his companion’s eyes. 

The ache is gone now, leaving warmth in its place. If he can manage it, he doesn’t want to ever feel it again. Ryan bumps his shoulder against Jeremy’s, as gently as he can. The mask was left in the car, he smiles at Jeremy, soft and tired.

“Same time next week?”

For a second Jeremy seems stunned, staring at him with something Ryan doesn’t feel like labeling, though for some reason the back of his mind does. Amazement. It makes him want to turn, stare at the city instead, flustered for a reason he can’t describe. He can see Jeremy smiling back out of the corner of his eye.

“I’ll try my best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also should I add the background characters, i.e. Barb, Kdin, Jon, to the tag list? I'm starting to think I should.


	12. Chapter 12

It's well past midnight before they finally decide to head back. Both their phones, when they finally check them, have a frankly astounding number of messages, varying from concerned to murderous, all apparently from various members of the crew. Jeremy’s kind enough to label the numbers in Ryan’s phone as he drives them back. Ryan for his part isn't stupid enough to have left any messages from anyone at the precinct on there. 

The streets are never really quiet in Los Santos, but it's easy enough to drive around what still travels the road this late at night. Once or twice he catches Jeremy staring at him, thinking about something Ryan can't quite figure out without taking his eyes off the road. They're cutting the corner around a stop sign when he finally speaks.

“Y’know I should probably warn you that if the crew doesn't kill us both for this, they have an equally dangerous plan cooked up for you next.”

Ryan, though admittedly it might be the painkillers, doesn't feel all that concerned.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. Like, I spent the two weeks trying to get them to lighten up on the mother hen department but they only let up when Gav suggested another trial run, which is why he got to be our chaperone. A few nights ago, just out of the blue, he went from annoyed to having this plan. So, because this went well, they want to see how well you do with certain other people on the crew.”

Ryan can see where this is going, and he absolutely doesn't like it.

“Not happening.”

“It's happening if you want Geoff to keep hiring you.”

“And what if I don't? There are other bidders out there, and they probably wouldn’t mind me picking who I work with.”

Jeremy fixes him with a look like he can see right through him. Ryan keeps his eyes on the road, brushes his hair out of his eyes in a move he hopes comes off more as casual than nervous. Jeremy calls him on his bluff anyways.

“Geoff pays the best though. It'll be something quick, if you two can keep off each other’s throats. Which you can totally do for my sake, right?”

Ryan growls low in his throat, grumbling. He knows he needs to, for the mission and absolutely not because Jeremy’s doing his best version of begging. 

“I expect to get paid up front, at least half in cash. I'm not dealing with him alone unless I'm getting that.”

“You aren't gonna like….kill him and skip town if I get Geoff to agree with that, right?”

Ryan elects not to respond, glaring at the lights of the road. Jeremy sighs.

“Alright...I trust you so I'll see man, but no promises.”

“Wouldn't expect them.”

It's strange to be trusted.

There's someone waiting for them when they get back to the Adder. 

She's petite, red hair, skirt and blouse and body bag. Ryan’s seen her before. She's leaning on the hood, examining her nails with a knife that almost seems too big for her hands, tinted rose red. Ryan can just make out an engraving on the handle, but he can’t tell what it is. Her smile is like poisoned pastries as Jeremy steps from the car, sugar sweet and twice as deadly. Ryan slips on his mask before he joins him.

“You two enjoy your date?”

Jeremy, oddly enough, seems more concerned about this than he did about the messages. 

“Hey Meg...what’re you doing here?”

“Geoff called and promised to pay me if I sat here and killed _him_ if he didn't come back with you.”

The knife points at Ryan, who’s struck by an immediate feeling of offense, then an equally immediate feeling of confusion to follow that offense. The knife flicks back towards Jeremy.

“I might just do it anyways. It's _my_ date night, I'm supposed to be back home watching a movie with girlfriend right now, complete with pajamas and ice cream and our cat. Lucky I don't skin your ass too.”

Jeremy holds up his hands in a show of surrender, smiling sheepishly as he skirts around her towards the driver’s side of the Adder. She keeps the knife pointed at him.

“If I tell Geoff to send you and Linds flowers and double your pay, would that help?”

The look she fixes him with is nothing short of scrutinizing. He wilts beneath it, subjugating himself to her will even as he gets into the car.

“Triple.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She gets off the hood. He waves to both of them before quickly turning over the engine and beating a hasty retreat. Her attention returns to Ryan, suddenly making him feel very much like a sailboat in the eye of the storm. He tries to make himself taller in the face of her petite stature but she doesn’t even seem remotely fazed. The knife taps him in the chest.

“You get any of them hurt, I’m gonna be back to start taking bits off of you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She examines him for a few seconds more before a smile breaks out on her face. The storm dissipates around him.

“Good. We’re gonna be friends I think. See you around.”

With that she turns on her heel and disappears into the dark. He can hear the click-roar of a starting motorcycle, see a flash of headlights, and then there’s nothing. 

His life has become so weird.

So he goes home, returns to his schedule for a few days, nurses his bruises. To his amusement, the ban on Jeremy texting him seems to have been lifted. The chime of the phone fills his apartment as he works out, tries to make his food last like it did last time. He feels reenergized, stronger, even though he knows precisely what’s going to be happening next time he has a job and he’s really not looking forward to that. Finally though, it happens.

_Okay so, not really a job but I think that’s probably a good thing with you two? It’s tonight by the way, sorry for the short notice. Don’t worry too much about weaponry._

It’s not really a job offer but he understands what Jeremy means anyways. He sighs, already heading for a the shower as he texts back a begrudging agreement. Sooner the better, Ryan supposes. He very nearly doesn’t put on his paint, almost not feeling up to the effort, but he feels better when it’s on. Ryan arms himself to the specification Jeremy gives him, driving to the address he's given. It’s another warehouse, the redhead and oddly enough, Jeremy, sitting together atop the fucking stupid Roosevelt in the parking lot out front. 

Ryan fixes Jeremy with an vaguely bemused look, glancing over the redhead and finding that same jacket, the same wild curls. The shirt’s changed, that’s something. Ryan thinks he might recognize the brand he’s smoking. Jeremy smiles at him, tosses a bag towards him that Ryan immediately knows is the physical part of his cut he requested. There’s his rent for the next few months. Jeremy talks while he tosses the bag into the Zentorno.

“I’m your eyes this time. Or, uh, rather I get to sit out here and come in if one of you two try to kill the other. Which isn’t going to happen, right?”

With effort, Ryan manages to swallow down a sharp response, nod. It seems like the redhead is doing the same. He’ll be nice, he promised.  
“So, what the fuck are we doing then?”

The redhead points a thumb at the building behind them. 

“Belongs to a different crew. We’re gonna go in and blow up the whole fucking thing. Nobody’s in there and Gav didn’t even think it was worth the effort of tapping in. Should be done within the hour or so.”

Now he’s starting to get what Jeremy meant by ‘not really a job’. He can probably handle this. Probably. Earpieces are handed out, they set to work. Jeremy waves them goodbye from his place atop the Roosevelt. The front door opens with minimal physical effort, no serious security to tell. Arrogance kills in Los Santos. 

From the bag on his shoulder the redhead produces charges, flicks a switch on each, tosses a few to Ryan. They work mostly in silence, spreading out and coming back, until Ryan turns a corner to find the redhead knocking over some boxes and barrels, searching. Ryan frowns at him through the mask.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing? Seeing if they have any good shit.”

Ryan glances at the nearest charge. They’re all timed. If the redhead tries to search everything, they’re going to go up with the warehouse.

“Seriously? Do you have a fucking death wish?”

The glare he gets is intense. Ryan returns it with ease.

“Listen asshole, I’ve done this a thousand fucking times. I’m only looking around a bit, we’ll be out of here before it goes.”

“Or you’re going to be a greedy fucking idiot and get yourself blown up and _I’m_ going to have to explain that I’m not the one who killed you.”

“Oh yeah, like that’d be some big fucking hassle for you. Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing. Just because Lil J likes you doesn’t mean you’re going to get the rest of us to stop expecting a fucking knife in the back.”

Red clouds Ryan’s vision. What the fuck should he have expected? Kumbaya? It’d be so fucking easy to put this little fucking _idiot_ through the floor, to crush his skull and just be done with it. The Vagabond takes one intimidating step towards him, watches him go for his gun. He could snap his arm before he can get off too many shots, break his legs and leave him to get caught in the explosion. Another step, the gun’s out now, raising up to point at him. He growls low, watches the redhead harden in response. They could end this right here and now. 

Abruptly, Jeremy flashes through his head, his words, _I trust you_. With effort he stops, breathes through his anger. The red fades. His words come out through gritted teeth.

“ _Listen_ , I’m fucking trying, okay? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m not great with the whole people thing. Jeremy’s trying so I’m trying and as long as your boss keeps paying me, it’s _my_ job to keep you safe. So just...hurry up.”

They’re wasting time. Ryan turns away, goes back to tossing charges onto places that seem relatively structurally important. He can feel the redhead’s eyes on the back of his head, boring into his skull. He breathes through his nose, trying to even out back into something resembling calm. They don’t speak again until the charges are set. The redhead stops going through boxes. They’re nearly back to the front when there is the screeching of tires, a ratchet of gunfire. The earpiece comes alive with a shout of surprise, the sound of metal against metal. Both freeze, glance up like they can see through the walls.

“Jeremy!”

“Lil J!”

For a second nothing, then, finally, a response.

“I’m fine! I’m behind the Zentorno, it’s the other crew! You guys need to get out of there! I’ll try to hold them off.”

Ryan’s already moving towards the door. Why he’s there, why he’s not by the Roosevelt, those are questions he doesn’t have time to ask.

“Jeremy, there’s a pair of backup keys in the glove compartment. Break the glass or whatever you have to do, just get in and drive off. We’ll clear them out, you just get out of it so one of us doesn’t accidentally shoot you.”

“I’m going to avoid taking that as an insult to my defensive capabilities.”

“You do that, just go.”

“I’m gone. I’ll try not to fuck up your car.”

The front door breaks with a crash. The two of them duck behind crates to avoid the hail of gunfire. There’s not time for this. He glances at the redhead, at the boxes around them, at the blinking charges. One of the boxes crumble beneath the bullets. Junk upon junk but in the middle of it, a knife, nothing impressive but gleaming silver sharp. It takes a second to make his decision, even less to shout.

“Hey, can you cover me?”

He doesn’t even give him time to answer, already moving. They aren’t expecting it, the element of surprise letting him scoop up the knife, lunge for the closest body. There’s blood, wet and red, arterial spray from the carotid. Now the kid’s with the program, keeping the other crew down as best he can as the Vagabond slaughters his way through the few who dared enter the building. He even gets a few of his own, ugly little headshots that spray blood and viscera into the growing mess on the ground. It’s easy, thoughtless, the only necessary knowledge that they _need_ to get moving before the charges blow.

It doesn’t take all that long. The knife breaks, cheap, useless, but it’s served its purpose. There’s only a few more outside, most having come in following the commotion. They take them out, almost unscathed. Then, then there’s a cry of pain, a curse, and the redhead goes down. Lucky shot, looks like a graze, but it’s enough. Ryan takes down the last asshole firing at them, grabs the kid. It’s not enough. It’s not going to be enough. 

It has to be. He promised.

It’s starting behind them, the first rumbling roar of fire and collapsing metal. Fine, alright. One last stupid fucking decision. Ryan growls in frustration, shifts the kid and tosses him hard as he can, hard enough to clear the hood of the Roosevelt, down on the other side. Out of sight, hopefully out of mind.

A wave of heat slams into him, throws him hard. The ground comes up too fast, the edge of a car that he can’t hope to dodge. His skull cracks against something, the world goes red, then black, he’s choking on something in his lungs. It tastes like blood.

Then there’s nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know what's hard to write? Arguments. Arguments are hard to write. Excited to be going from here though.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. It's been a rough fucking year, hasn't it?

The world cuts in and out in faded shades, a kaleidoscope that spins and confuses and drags him down, down, down. Words pierce the dark, muffled and far away, whispers for all the good they do for him. He’s pretty sure someone’s shouting, multiple people maybe? The colors spin and blur and he’s moving but not moving, flat on his back and choking for air. It’s all too much and he’s under again.

_“C’mon asshole, Lil J’s never gonna forgive me if you die here.”_

There’s someone holding his hand, squeezing softly before letting go. It drags him up above the crashing waves of pain and confusion and he almost manages to speak, but then another hand rests over his eyes, blocks out the swirling colors. Something pricks his veins, curls through his blood, filling his head and making them all disappear into emptiness.

_“He’ll live, mostly.”_

The next time he wakes, it seems like it’s for good now, or at the very least for a few more minutes. He’s in another fucking bed, unwilling to open his eyes and see that sickening mix of colors again. Instead he groans, trying to roll over. Pain nearly stops him, dulled but no less fierce, but then there’s a broad hand on his shoulder, helping him. It feels like someone is stabbing him repeatedly over every inch of his skin, everything spinning behind his eyes, but they make it, eventually. Ryan props himself up onto his elbows, coughs wet and weak. The hand doesn’t move from his shoulder but instead pets him a little, unaccountably soothing.

“Hey Vagabond, you sticking around this time?”

He knows the voice, recognizes it and feels calmed, even though he can’t put a name to a sound through the cotton in his head. One of his hands reach up, coming in contact not with rubber but flesh, still tacky with paint, the softness of bandages brushing his fingertips. He groans again, breathes shallowly through his nose. He isn’t sure his voice is loud enough to hear. Everything feels like it’s through a fog, thick and cloying, making everything a muffled mess.

“Really not in the mood to be called that.”

The hand pauses in its ministrations, then resumes. The tone of the voice sounds calmer somehow, reassured that he’s responsive. It sounds clearer too, louder, like the speaker raised his voice just a little.

“Well I don’t have anything else to call you but uh, congrats, you’re alive. Your jacket is on the dresser but...the rest of your clothes didn’t...there was fire and then emergency semi-surgery...and your mask…it uh….but your clothes…you….”

Very slowly, he risks opening his eyes. For a second it’s all too bright and the world spins, threatening to take him back under, but soon enough everything calms back down to suitable colors. The fact that it’s dark in the room helps, the glow from the window the only light. The voice clicks to a name as he looks up to see Jeremy, scrubbed clean and in fresh clothes. Ryan wonders if he got blood on the last ones. He’s blushing, fierce enough to tell even with his limited night vision. He knows why. Jeremy still tries to explain, eyes resolutely three inches up and to the right of his face, of his shirtless body. When he moves his legs a little he can feel sweatpants.

“We uh...You...Your dick looks good. I mean that’s what Caleb said! The piercing, your junk in general. Totally not burned or anything. You’re good...really good.”

It hurts like fire to laugh but he finds himself doing so anyways. Jeremy gets tongue-tied when he’s flustered, how cute.

“It’s fine, I don’t really care that you saw my dick. But if we’re on that personal of-”

He has to stop to breathe, wheezing. Jeremy pats his shoulder reassuringly.

“...Of a level you might as well start calling me Ryan. Probably less awkward that way.”

The smile that lights up Jeremy’s face is blinding. Ryan blames the drugs on the way his heart flutters in his chest.

“Ryan. You look like a Ryan.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was.”

For a second, Jeremy flusters, then smiles.

“At any rate, you aren't the only person on the crew with a secret piercing. Michael’s got a nose ring he doesn't wear out on jobs.”

He encourages Ryan into his side as he talks, gently patting his shoulder and helping him situate. Ryan breathes through gritted teeth, waits for the pain to fade again. 

“What's the damage?”

Jeremy sits back in his seat, scrutinizing Ryan before he lifts a hand, ticks off his fingers one by one. In a way he probably is.

“Including the bruises our little adventure left on you? Couple second-degree burns, one third-degree on your leg from where a piece of the building burnt through your jeans, handful of first-degrees on your torso, a concussion from where the Roosevelt caught your face, some temporary hearing loss from the explosion, and a punctured lung. Caleb says it could’ve been a lot worse and you got really fucking lucky. Puts functional recovery at two or three weeks and relatively full recovery at close to six, if we treat you gently. Like ‘you should be napping right now instead of talking to me’ gently.”

Ryan snorts weakly through his nose, tries to tug the pillow closer under his head. Jeremy leans forward to help him again. 

“How’s everyone else reacting to this?”

“To what? Having a mercenary pass out on us twice? Surprisingly well.”

“Fuck you.”

“Gladly.”

Ryan can’t honestly tell if Jeremy is joking or not but the slight flush on the tips of his ears is entertaining either way. It’s tempting to tease if his friend really does think about fucking the Vagabond, but that leads his drugged brain down places he’s not really sure he wants to think about right now. Instead he laughs softly, shakes his head. Jeremy smiles at him warmly but it soon fades, his hands clasping together nervously.

“There’s also...fuck, how the fuck do I explain this….Your mask melted a bit. Onto your face. We had to cut it off so Caleb could get it off of you. He’s not sure if it’ll scar or not but your mask was...sort of destroyed.”

Something about that makes Ryan want to scowl, though he doesn’t know why. Not like he’s had it for too long. He can just go get another one, if he can find it. Though that does explain the bandages. He starts the motion of a shrug before the pain stops him. Jeremy seems to get it, the smile returns. Ryan feels like the world is better for it.

“Guess I spoke too soon about your face not melting huh? Just had to wait a few times.”

The sound Ryan makes is more of an ugly snort than anything else but it seems to make Jeremy brighten even more. He reaches out, pats Ryan’s shoulder.

“I’m going to go see if I can get you some food or water. Try not to fuck yourself up somehow?”

“No promises.”

The laugh Jeremy gives makes Ryan feel like there is cotton in his chest as well as his head. He shuts his eyes to try to make it go away. He hears Jeremy pause at the door, the shift of fabric as he turns back. The words aren’t loud enough for him to make out, but they sound like a thank you. The world muddles back into darkness and fog. When he opens his eyes again there are the first telltale streaks of sunlight pouring in through the window, sunrise on the horizon. Jeremy’s asleep in his chair, snoring softly. Ryan can’t help but admire for a second, the blue of his hair catching the soft light, making him seem like part of the sky itself. There’s a glass of water beside the bed, a sandwich perched on a plate, pills on the edge of it. 

It takes time and effort to sit up enough to eat, more propped up on the pillows behind him than truly sitting. He's just about done when there's a knock at the door, loud enough to rouse Jeremy. Ryan watches as he jolts, blinking the sleep away as he quickly scans the room, glancing over Ryan with the water in his hands, the window, then the door. The gaze of someone who’s used to knowing all the exits, all the variables. It's surprisingly comforting.

“Hey, either of you assholes awake in there?”

The redhead, muffled both from the door and Ryan’s ringing ears. Jeremy glances back to Ryan, questioning, and Ryan can only shrug in return. It's probably the pain, the inkling of painkillers kicking in on the horizon, but he can't really piece together enough thought to care right now. With a sigh Jeremy stands, opens the door. On the other side the kid’s in crutches, no doubt due to his grazed leg, dressed in what appears to be pajamas. Ryan wonders where they are, that the kid has such a worn-out pair of sweatpants, a shirt that looks a size and a half too large, plastered with a band ten years too old. There's an awkward frown on his face, clearer as Jeremy steps aside to let him in. It feels unbelievably silent as he stops in the middle of the room, glances back to Jeremy.

“Mind giving us a few Lil J? Go get some food for yourself or something.”

Jeremy frowns, skeptical, but he looks tempted. Ryan waves him off as best he can.

“I'll try not to be mysteriously killed in my bed.”

He doesn't look that reassured, fixing the redhead with a look before stepping off down the hall, shutting the door only mostly behind him. The kid sighs, turns his attention back to Ryan, who simply finishes his drink, watching him right back:

“I assume I won't be killed mysteriously in my bed? Unless you wanna try to kill me with your crutches, in which case feel free. I'll give you points for enthusiasm.”

A laugh bursts out of the kid before he can stop it, bright and bewilderingly infectious. When he shakes his head Ryan’s brain finally registers the flash of silver in his septum. Seems like Jeremy wasn’t exaggerating. It makes him seem surprisingly vulnerable, like Ryan’s seeing a side of him he isn’t meant to see. The kid gathers himself, his expression dropping back to that frown. Ryan’s sad to see the smile go.

“Listen I just…Caleb said you might be dealing with some hearing loss for a while. If you need it, I’ve got a guy you can call. He makes good cheap hearing aids, off the grid and everything. I use him for mine.”

He tries to make it seem casual but it’s obvious what it’s meant to be. An apology for any perceived wrong. The first steps towards a bridge over a rift. Ryan can’t help but smile at him, something that makes the kid’s face twist amusingly in surprise. Michael. That was his name.

“Thanks. I might.”

“Yeah…”

He shifts a little, like he wants to go back for the door. Instead he moves a bit closer, his face turning to something more determined, more intense.

“Seriously though, thank you. I know we’ve both been assholes to each other and I’ve probably been worse and you said you were trying back at the warehouse but you didn’t have to save my ass. Jeremy’s the only guy who you’re close too and he probably would’ve believed you if you said I didn’t make it out but you saved my ass and got fucked up in the process. Caleb said you probably shouldn’t even get up for a few days and you’re gonna be out of commission for a few weeks and I just need to dick around for a bit instead of what it could’ve been. So just...thanks.”

The sincerity of his voice is impressive. It might be the drugs or the sun but it almost seems like he’s blushing. He doesn’t give Ryan a chance to respond before he’s turning back to the door, leaving before he can even put together a coherent response.

That was...unexpected.

His heart flutters oddly in his chest. That’s probably not good.

He’s not sure he cares.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized halfway through this chapter I couldn't logistically do what I wanted with it but I got some good stuff in anyways. Next chapter we'll be back to mayhem and shenanigans, I promise.

He’s not allowed out of the bed for the first few days. They seem to all have a sixth sense for when he tries, Jeremy especially. Michael threatens to tackle him and tie his legs down the one time he catches him trying to make his way to the dresser across the room, shouting him down with a thick accent slipping into his words. Jersey, interesting. Once or twice the driver ducks his head in, cowing his attempts with just a look. The bedrest is good for him, even if it's driving him up the wall. 

He can't even see out the window from this angle.

After a day or so, he gives up, rests. He rests and heals and talks softly with Jeremy, exhausted and in pain but with a far lighter heart than what he's felt in ages. When he finally does complain about the dull scenery of the same room Jeremy picks him up with ease, moving him to the couch in the living room while everyone else is out. The floor to ceiling windows reveal that they're still in the city, practically in the heart of it. He doesn't really care, though that might be the drugs. Instead he takes the controller Jeremy pushes into his hands, plays until he feels tired again. Jeremy laughs when he's playing games, it's the perfect sound to sleep to. It soon becomes what they do everyday. Ryan wakes up in his bed every time, Jeremy always nearby. It's nice. Ryan can even ignore the fact that he is dying to take his leftover facepaint off with him around. He wonders if Jeremy minds his continued paranoia. He wonders if there's any point of it.

On the fourth day he can move around on his own. He pretends he can’t. He doesn’t admit to himself why.

On the fifth he awakens to find Ramsey sitting beside his bed, not in his suit but instead in ratty jeans and a half-zipped hoodie, old and threadbare. He doesn't look like Los Santos’s most wanted, he nearly looks homeless. Ryan has to appreciate the duality of the switch, even more so considering that this is the first time he's seen Ramsey since the heist.

Ramsey’s eyes flick to the bandage on Ryan's cheek, away to the wall, steeling before returning to match his lazy gaze. He seems on edge. Despite the switch there is still sharpness in his eyes. He may not be Geoff Ramsey, most wanted of Los Santos, right now, he may just be Geoff Ramsey, tired man who nearly lost a friend, but his eyes still speak towards the power and conviction that gave him the capacity to get where he is now. This is a man who believes in a debt owed and paid, even if he isn’t sure what to do about it.

He swallows before he speaks. 

"You've saved people on my crew at least twice now Vagabond. That's more than most paid mercs would do."

Ryan shrugs, a little easier now that his ribs are starting to heal.

"It’s my job. You pay me, I’m loyal, as long as you don’t fuck me over or stop paying me."

"Loyal ain't throwing one of my boys out of harm’s way, it's getting yourself out of dodge and apologizing for the loss. But you saved my ass at the bank and you've saved his ass at the warehouse, even after the two of you nearly got into a fight. That’s dedication, not loyalty, and instead of doing anything about it we've just kept putting you in the position to fuck you up. Caleb said you looked fucking clean before we got a hold of you. Big tough Vagabond who's never lost a fight until the Fakes got their hands on him."

He snorts, glances towards the window. It makes him seem far too old.

"Listen Vagabond, you've probably figured it out by now but we aren't polished and prepped. We're a bunch of fuckheads who just happen to know how to put a city in the ground. All of us are fucked up. Shit goes wrong all the time. We're just lucky as shit to survive."

Ramsey unzips his hoodie as he speaks, lays it across the back of the chair. Ryan finds himself caught in the extensiveness of Ramsey’s tattoos, full sleeves of color and shape and swirl, painted over endless scars, a life of fighting and bleeding and getting back up again etched into every inch of that skin. His stomach tugs with how badly he wants to touch and the drugs must be stronger than he thought because suddenly he is. Ramsey lets him, watches him as he traces up one bad one that drags up nearly half his forearm. They both get lost in the moment. Minutes pass before Ryan pulls back, fixes him with a crooked smile. Ramsey seems caught by that look in turn.

“I’d be out of the job if I didn’t provide above what any other asshole provides boss, that includes keeping everyone safe.”

Ramsey’s face lifts up into a grin that makes Ryan’s heart twist oddly, shakes his head like he can’t quite believe Ryan exists. 

“You’re fucking weird, you know that? Really fucking weird.”

“It’s my charm.”

Ramsey laughs. The world seems lighter somehow. When he finally manages to stop he nudges a box beside the bed with his foot.

“Got you some shit. Consider it recompense. Caleb’s gonna drop by tomorrow, let you know whether you’re good to be moving around if you need to go out and do shit, but I don’t think Jeremy’s going to let you out of his sight for a while. This is your room now as far as he’s concerned. I'm not going to argue with him.”

With that Ramsey claps his hands together, a sharp collected move very reminiscent of the suit, and stands, grabbing his hoodie as he goes. 

“Go back to sleep Vagabond, we’ll see what we can get you up and doing soon.”

He manages to nap for an hour before his curiosity has him grabbing for the box. It doesn't kill him as soon as he grabs it, which he was admittedly somewhat expecting, but instead it's a set of items, nearly as interesting as quick death.

Immediately apparent are the two sharp items inside, glistening in the light of the lamp nearby. One is vicious, a black-handled blade that could just as easily settle against his thigh as it could between a rib cage, fresh and hungry for blood. It's perfectly weighted, designed just for him. The other makes him laugh, caught somewhere between in the limbo between surprised and utterly unsurprised. The blade itself is engraved, inlaid with something like gemstones, flickering like flames in the light. The handle itself is gold, fancy, over the top, a blood red ruby right in the center. Even at the same size as the other, it may as well be a sword and it strikes him immediately as something Ramsey chose, probably a small fortune sitting in the palm of his hand.

He absolutely loves it. 

There's one other thing in the box. He sets the blades on the dresser before removing this last item. It’s hefty in his hands, heavier than the rubber of the last.

A new mask. Not a full head mask like his last, instead a thick face mask, similar to a hockey mask if not for the design, dark and grey, a grinning gleaming skull. He admires it, fits it on with the single thick strap across the back. It’s a wonderful fit. He feels something fit right back into his soul, a missing piece he didn’t know was gone. He’s _scary_ again. It’s the little things.

Jeremy smiles when he opens the door to see the mask fit firmly on Ryan’s face, once again faced with that look of nightmares, piercing blue eyes through terrifying death. It’s enough to make one’s heart pound.

“So Geoff’s apology presents are good then?”

Ryan pulls the mask off, grinning. Yep, definitely heart pounding. 

“Yeah, that’s a word for it.”

He lifts up the golden dagger and Jeremy snorts, shrugging.

“Geoff’s got so much fucking money he’s sort of forgotten that most people don’t buy super expensive shit for any form of special occasion. You’d think he’s hanging around with certain people too much, holding gold as the be-all end-all for shit. Michael says that once Geoff bought a gold jet but I don’t know if I believe that. I’ve never seen it. He does own a yacht though, and that shit’s literally about as over the top as you can get.”

There’s nothing quite like the Vagabond’s laugh. Ryan sets both items back on the dresser, settles back against his pillow. Despite the bandages and the drugs and the pain he looks strong, put together, confident in a way most people couldn’t dream. There’s so much visible skin. Ryan distracts him with that crooked grin.

“You bring me some food Lil J?”

“Yeah, you like enchiladas?”

The next day Caleb comes, Ryan finally getting the opportunity to introduce himself. Caleb doesn’t show a hint of nervousness, instead giving Ryan a thorough checkup with confident hands. He smiles when he gets the go-ahead to get up and move around for more extended periods, as long as he keeps resting as much as possible. Apparently he can even go home. 

He should go home.

Jeremy offers to drive him later, or at the very least call him a cab. He looks a little down. Ryan, admittedly, feels the same. He also understands the offer for what it is. They’ve taken enough of Ryan’s privacy. If he wants to keep where he lives a secret too, Jeremy won’t push him on it. It’s appreciated, in a way. More than once he seems like he wants to ask something, whether if Ryan wants to stay here or if he wants Jeremy to go with him, but neither leave the younger man’s mouth. There’s certain boundaries they aren’t supposed to break. 

Caleb supplies Ryan with a cane to walk around with, just in case he feels like the scarring from the burns or the still-decreased capacity of his lungs weighs too much on him unassisted. 

Ryan takes Jeremy up on his offer to drive him home. It’s a quiet drive, Ryan napping the slightest bit. When they stop outside his complex, Ryan very nearly invites him inside. Something inside him, something buried by the exhaustion and adventure, keeps him quiet. He belatedly realizes that it’s the reminder that this apartment is still his space to be James, boring dull James. Jeremy smiles in a way that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“You’re welcome back at the penthouse anytime, you know that right? If you think it’s still too much to risk being alone or you just want company or something you can just call me and I’ll come pick you up. I mean, you know where it is now.”

Ryan smiles, reaches out to playfully pat Jeremy’s cheek. The way he blushes makes it worth it.

“We’ll see. See you later.”

“See you.”

The elevator feels like it takes ages and with every floor he feels the hollow echo of loneliness returning. His apartment is cold and empty when he finally gets it unlocked and gets inside. He already feels winded, even with just the box and bag he carried up. Maybe he should have stayed longer. 

No sense in lingering. Instead he tosses the bag gently onto the couch, puts effort into emptying out the box. The jacket, mostly mended and smelling only slightly of smoke, goes onto the counter, the knives and the new mask atop it. He’ll probably go buy another of the older one soon. He should at the very least. His phone gets plugged in, long dead after so many days recovering. At the bottom of the box he discovers the keys to the Zentorno, a reminder from Jeremy to come back soon. It makes him smile. Before he leaves the kitchen he makes sure to water Elvis, looking only the tiniest bit dry. Tough little plant.

Stripping takes effort once he gets to the bathroom, most of his bandages already removed to scab over but some still in need of removal. By the time he gets them all off, gets the facepaint finally _finally_ off, it’s been nearly an hour. For the first time in nearly a week, James looks himself in the eye.

The scar on his cheek is a bad one now that it’s begun to heal, a burn of torn skin, only so much saved from the melted mask, arcing from his cheekbone down to his jaw. Very distinctive. It feels like he’s not wearing his skin, or rather the name he uses with the criminal is washed away no longer fits, like there’s something different there inside of him. He brushes it off, starts the shower. It feels nice to get the grime off, to feel as clean on his skin as he does inside. It takes him ages to convince himself to get out from under the spray. It’s nice to wear some old soft clothes again.

His phone has a few missed calls, some texts. He’s supposed to send an update. He sighs, turns the phone back off. It’s nothing he wants to deal with right now.

He doesn’t sleep as well that night as he has the last few. Popping some of the heavier painkillers midway through the night solves that particular problem. In the morning it takes effort to wake up, get out of bed and cook. Nothing he has the energy to make is nearly as good as what he’d eaten at the penthouse.

He wonders absently who cooked while he was there. Didn’t seem like Jeremy was apart from him enough to do so. Question for the ages. 

The rest of the day he spends on the couch, flipping through the channels, looking for something to do. He can’t call Jeremy, he can’t. He has to stay separate. It’s his job. His job.

His job.

He barely makes it to the kitchen sink before he loses his breakfast. Somehow, he winds up on the cold tile floor, staring up at the ceiling. The crushing loneliness settles into his bones like lead.

It’s a long road ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's enough blood and violence at this point to consider this Mature right?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't drive drunk kids. Or high on painkillers.

James doesn’t turn his phone back on. He actually puts all of his effort into ensuring it stays off, otherwise he might be tempted to use it to call...certain people. Instead he unplugs it, tucks the charger into a kitchen cabinet, and leaves the phone in his bedroom drawer.

Temptation is surprisingly difficult to avoid.

His days fall into a similar structure as before, sleeping and eating and avoiding too much physical exertion. His ears still ring a little, his chest still seizes if he tries too hard to do anything, everything feels like he’s moving through a thick fog, clouded by painkillers and emptiness. He makes an impressive dent in his freezer foods and spends a good long time watching whatever mindless TV he can find. James manages, all told, to make it another week and a half without interruption, though he certainly finds himself staring at the shut off phone, at the calendar, even just out the window, far more often than he would care to admit. It’s nearly halfway through October. Has this really been his life for nearly four months? Has it only been that long?

Caught by the slow crawl, the strangeness of it all, he swears to take some initiative, at least to restock his groceries and some over-the-counter painkillers, as his seem to be running out. He actually succeeds, though it’s well in past sunset when he finds himself in the parking lot, arms loaded with bags, someone shouting at him as they near.

“James!”

His head’s swimming a little with the encroaching echoes of pain, so he gives himself some leeway in the fact that it takes until the shouter is directly in front of him to recognize who it is. All the same, something inside his body kicks him for being unawares, for not being ready despite his numerous injuries. The person stops in front of him, eyeing him in blatant worry and a bit of frustration. He must look terrible, though maybe it’s just the scarring.

“Jesus christ James, everyone at the precinct was half-sure you were dead.”

Jon looks good, dressed nice, although a little mussed, both in hair and clothes. There’s a rather impressive mark nearly hidden by his shirt collar and, more bewilderingly, a puffball hanging close to his feet that James belatedly realizes is a dog.

“I’m...sorry?”

“It’s fine, I’ll just call Miles and tell him to send Kdin a message. I’m sure she’ll be happy to know you’re alive, Barb too. More to the point, you look like hell. What happened?”

The first thing that comes to his mind, thank god, isn’t ‘explosion’. 

“Someone came around the corner too fast, went up on the sidewalk. Got me. Didn’t want to worry anyone.”

“Well you did worry everyone, but it’s good to know you aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere. You need any help? You look like you need help. How did you even get here?”

James...doesn’t have a good answer for that. He fights against the haze to remember where he parked, _what he drove_ , but it all comes up a blur. Uselessly, he sets down some of his bags to get his keys out, only for Jon to snatch them from his hand almost the second they appear. He’s not nearly coherent enough to react in time.

“Alright, executive decision, I’m driving you home and making you don’t pass out in the hallway or something. I’m sober enough.”

That kicks something in James’s head into gear. He watches Jon as he picks up some of the placed bags and looks around, the answering honk of a door lock answering his press of a button. His movements are easy, fluid, smooth in a way any average human can’t manage.

Jon, James realizes, is drunk. Maybe not as drunk as he could be, but by no means sober. He opens his mouth to protest only for Jon to fix him with a look that tells him if he wants to keep all his organs where they currently are, he’ll shut up and not protest.

It’s not just his looks that made Jon one of the sharpest reporters in the city. 

Jon drives just fine for a drunk person, in a car that thankfully is James’s shitty old car and not Ryan’s shiny Zentorno. Rather belatedly, he remembers he can’t have drove his Zentorno, it’s still at the penthouse. It nearly makes him laugh. Instead he just directs Jon to his complex and doesn’t complain when Jon takes most of the bags, hazily leading him to his apartment door. It takes a few seconds to unlock it and in that time apparently Jon decides that James needs more help than previously anticipated as he slips past him and into the kitchen, dog trailing close behind. 

With nothing else to do, James shuts the door behind him, looking around the apartment just in case he left anything incriminating hanging about. Thankfully, nothing seems amiss aside from the vague emptiness it normally has, which is something he’s used to at this point in his life. Abandoning the last few bags on the island, he moves his way to the couch and gracelessly flops onto it. Vague sounds pierce his haze, beeps and shutting counters and the like. He has no sense of time before a hand gently touches his shoulder, encouraging him up onto one side of the couch.

“I took the liberty of putting your groceries away and heating you up something. You look like you need it.”

James is smart enough to take the plate, watching as Jon hops up over the back of the couch to occupy the now vacant half of the couch, lanky limbs tucking up far more gracefully than James’s previous landing. The dog circles the couch, hopping up into his lap as they both settle in to watch James eat. They sit in silence for a few minutes before James finds it too damn awkward to continue.

“How...are you going to get back to the store if you took my car?”

“I can walk or call a cab, Bella and I were supposed to be doing that anyways.”

His hand finds the puffball, who preens accordingly under the attention.

“You were out walking dressed like that?”

“No, I just didn’t feel like staying home when my date got called away on official police business and didn’t bother to change. Wasn’t going to be a long walk.”

“Your date is a cop? Isn’t that against journalistic integrity or something?”

If looks could kill, James is fairly certain he would be dead where he sits, which in comparison to everything else that could have killed him these last few months, that’s pretty sad. He shrugs, aiming for innocently curious and mostly succeeding. Jon rolls his eyes, sighing. 

“Not really. Miles is from a different precinct and since I pretty much keep to your precinct, I’m not doing much. Besides, you’ve met him, he’s a detective, it’s not like he’s got anything to tell me.”

The look James gives him is apparently blank enough that Jon realizes he has no idea who he’s talking about. 

“Wow, you really are out of it aren’t you? You met him same time I did, when I came by to pick up the packet on the Vagabond? Miles Luna, from the northern precinct. He was at the front desk?”

The last name chimes some bells and after a second James vaguely connects everything he’s saying to the plainclothes detective he met a few times. The one that told him that Jon was looking for him. Right. He points vague fingers at Jon’s throat, hoping to remove some of that worried look from him.

“Did he leave that on you?”

Jon’s hand snaps up to cover the mark, flushing a rather impressive shade of red before he quashes it, quickly buttoning his shirt up until it’s covered. James just grins knowingly at him, earning a swat on his leg, thankfully nowhere injured, and a returning smile.

“You’re more of a smartass when you’re on painkillers, just want you to know.”

“I’m aware.”

Jon’s laugh is a good laugh. James has no problem understanding why Luna would be interested in dating him. He takes the plate when he’s done, presses a glass of water and a bottle of pills into his hand when he’s returning. 

“I think you’re fine to handle yourself from this point on so I’m going to head out. Try not to die somehow in the next ten minutes and prove me wrong?”

“Of course not, I’ll wait twenty.”

Another laugh, Jon shaking his head a little in disbelief.

“Asshole. I left my number on the counter. Just fucking call if you need help, you’ve got friends out there to take care of you, you don’t need to be all macho and tough this out alone. And send a text to Kdin as soon as you can okay? I’m not sure how long Miles’s message will placate her and I think she could kill all of us and make it look like an accident if she wanted.”

James doesn’t disagree. 

The apartment returns to silence with Jon’s departure, his dog trailing close behind. Friends, what a concept. It makes him think of colorful hair and bright smiles, mismatched clothes over untold scars. Somehow, he feels more guilty over that than leaving anyone at the precinct hanging.

Maybe avoidance wasn’t his brightest idea.

Tomorrow. He’ll turn on his phone tomorrow.

He’s made everyone wait long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'd like to formally apologize for taking so long on getting this posted. Frankly I had some serious writer's block. First draft of this chapter had Jon tracking down James to his apartment and I couldn't just make it work and then yesterday, super out of it with a fever and NyQuil, I realized that there were other ways to have this happen. I'm still full of NyQuil. And fevered. Either way this chapter is done and I have plans for the next chapters so hopefully they'll happen faster, classes permitting.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....the last few months have been....busy. I made this chapter an extra 1k to make up for it. I love all of you for sticking around!

His phone more or less explodes the second he turns it back on. Most notable is a series of texts from people at the precinct trying to get a bead on him. There's a few from Barb, semi-joking as she checks to make sure he's not dead every few days, though there is a sense of increasing worry. Kdin’s texts mostly give off the vague implication of threats that can be fully carried through if he doesn't text an update soon. Those don't seem overly concerned, almost like she knew he'd be fine. He texts them both, reassuring Barb that he's alive and informing Kdin that he doesn't have much to update with. Both text him back almost immediately, Barb with a series of various nonsensical letters he assumes to be relief, and Kdin merely with a sarcastic ‘shocking’.

The other texts he has aren't really surprising either, but they make something warm in his chest. One is a text from Michael, the number of the person who makes the hearing aids in case the mild hearing loss hasn't gone away. He writes down the number, the loss mostly gone now but always good for future reference. The other texts are from Jeremy, similar to Barb’s in a ‘I’m worried about you but trying not to make it obvious’ way. They are almost scheduled, one every day or two at almost the same time, checking in.

It occurs to him that he's been alone in his apartment for just a day under two weeks. How time flies when you're wallowing in pain and misery. 

Jeremy texts back almost immediately after he messages him, failing terribly at trying to seem ambivalent. They chat for awhile, Jeremy catching him up on everything that he can think of, and a few things he can't. James thinks about how he said he didn't have anything worth updating, Ryan snorts and texts back to every little thing Jeremy has to say. 

He feels a little better after that, a bit more put together. He takes some painkillers and cleans up the mess that two weeks of hazy apathy creates. It gives him something to do as he and Jeremy text back and forth about little things. 

Later in the day he gets a text from him which simply tells him to go downstairs and pick up his takeout because he doesn't know which apartment is his.

The food is really good.

James blames the painkillers for how weird his heart feels as he eats.

He feels better than he has in ages as he goes to sleep that night. 

The next day he does a little bit more, does some stretches, that sort of thing. He isn’t up for lifting any of the weights again and he doesn’t think he will be until his ribs and lungs are fully healed but it’s a start at the least. 

The day after that is the same, a little more work, still being gentle with his body in case of making the whole rule of ‘functional recovery at three weeks, full recovery at six’ that he was given fall flat due to his own stupidity. He still hurts, still finishes the night in his shitty shower trying not to collapse from exhaustion and pain, but it’s a good start he thinks. He won’t be doing anything as stupid as tearing open a bullet wound again.

Jeremy texts him the whole time. 

A few days later he texts him with an offer to get out of the house.

_Hey so you remember Meg?_

_She threatened you with a knife._

Ryan finds himself laughing at that. James texts back a confirmation.

_Well she’s going to go out with her girlfriend later to do some pickups and they need two more people just to be some extra eyes._

_Super lowkey, just sitting in the back of a car with some guns._

_Lindsay’s promised to get us food after, it’ll be really good I promise._

_This is not a date, I repeat not a date, just something to get you out of the house. Interested?_

He looks around his dull little apartment, humming. He waits a minute before responding that it sounds like a good plan. As always, Jeremy texts back almost immediately.

_Cool, see you in like an hour._

It takes a minute to sink in that this will be the first really criminal thing he’s done since the explosion, except for possibly withholding evidence. He thinks he should probably shower. Sounds like a good place to start.

The facepaint is a little hard to do with his body still healing and with the arcing scar on his face so he just winds up forgoing the red completely, giving up on the white a little while he’s at it. The end result is a bit more skeletal, and still does well hiding his features. Something fits back proper into his soul as he slides the jacket back on, feeling a bit more whole as he picks up the replacement mask. He feels nothing short of glee at how well the knife slides into the sheath on his thigh. 

As a last thought, he grabs the keys to his Zentorno.

There’s that bewilderingly ugly Adder outside when he gets downstairs, Jeremy sitting on the hood. He lights up when Ryan appears in the doorway to the dilapidated complex, that big broad grin that gives Ryan no option but to smile back, mask held loosely in his hand.

“You look better.”

“Wish I could say the same for you.”

Jeremy laughs, runs a hand through his viciously bright red hair.

“That good huh? Jack helped pick the color with you out of commission.” 

Ryan hums, waits until Jeremy slips off the hood to slide in on the passenger side.

“Could be worse I guess.”

He really missed Jeremy’s laugh.

“That’s a compliment from you.”

“I admit to nothing.”

They chat companionably as Jeremy drives, a rush of air past the windows filled with too-sharp turns and illegal speeds that would turn most people’s stomachs. They make their way up out of downtown, through the skyscrapers and through into the trees, up into the hills, though not too far from the hustle and bustle. The winding streets lead to a gorgeous stilt apartment, casual expense punctuated by a blood red Windsor Drop in the driveway. Jeremy pulls in alongside it, out of the Adder almost as soon as he parks. Ryan reaches for his mask, almost puts it on before remembering that most of the crew has seen his face with just his paint, what does it matter if a few more do?

He follows after as the shorter man hops up to the door, ringing the bell before immediately letting himself in. When he glances back with a grin, Ryan lifts an eyebrow at him.

“What? They knew we were coming, that’s why the door’s unlocked.”

He wanders in, shouting aloud for the two. After a second, they hear a voice, full of lower tones and sense of casual joy, coming from the direction of what Ryan realizes after a second to be a kitchen.

“Seriously man? You just rang the doorbell, we know you’re here.”

From the doorway comes the other woman that he saw ages ago at the store, beside Jeremy and the woman he now knows to be Meg. He realizes as she appears that she’s on crutches, decorated with multicolored florals, her leg gone just below the knee. Jeremy smiles at her and she rolls her eyes theatrically.

“Hey Linds, you guys ready to go?”

“Not yet, Meg’s in the basement doing her thing, she’ll be out soon. Go hang out in the pool until she’s ready and I’m fucking dressed. You weren’t supposed to get here for like another forty minutes.”

“Thought we might try to beat traffic.”

“Yeah right you just wanted to use the pool and you dragged him into it.”

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. She sighs with that same impressive theatricality, already waving him off. She moves with the practiced ease of someone who’s been doing this a long time, nearly flowing past them and into a door Ryan takes to be the bedroom. Jeremy grabs his wrist before he can get too into analyzing his surroundings, dragging him out of the back of the house and to the sparkling pool. He deposits him under the shade of the table umbrella, already moving towards the water. Ryan rubs his wrist, oddly warm, before watching in surprise as Jeremy strips down, tossing his shirt to safety, then his pants, jumping into the crystal clear water in nothing but his underwear. 

Distantly, he feels his face warming up. Jeremy reappears above the water, grinning broadly. He shines in the light, all scars and muscle and Ryan quickly schools his face into something along the lines of unimpressed. Thankfully, his friend doesn’t seem to notice, instead attempting to entice him into the water. Ryan rolls his eyes, dropping into one of the chairs beneath the umbrella instead as Jeremy gives up, settling for doing laps. 

Ryan is a little embarrassed to admit to himself that he absolutely stares.

“Wow you’ve got it bad, huh?”

He catches himself before he jumps, looking over to see Meg there, nearly drenched in blood with her knowing eyes locked on him. She still has that knife in her hand. He shrugs, turning his gaze back to the water.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She snorts, a beautifully unladylike sound. 

“Yeah right, no straight person watches their friend like that. You’ve totally got it for him.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. She pats his shoulder, just a little slick with red.

“It’s good for you, and for him. You both seem like you could use someone. Just remember that if you hurt him I’ll gut you like a fish and hide the body.”

He looks back up to see an angelic little smile on her face. She pats his shoulder again, innocent as can be, then turns back to the house. Decidedly flustered, he chooses that his safest option right now is to download solitaire or something on his phone and maybe just watch Jeremy out of the corner of his eye. It’s another thirty minutes or so before he hears movement again, sees Jeremy haul himself up from the pool in a distracting display of skin and sticking fabric. Instead he stands, turns to see the two ladies. 

Meg looks like she’s prepared to walk a runway, not a hint of blood left. Her clothes are a soft blue, a color that matches perfectly with the floral cover on the prosthetic leg Lindsay now wears. They’re both grinning, a knowing edge that tells Ryan that Meg absolutely told her girlfriend all about their quick interaction. Jeremy shakes off, grabs his clothes just in time for Lindsay to bean him in the head with a balled up towel.

“Now we’re waiting on you asshole, move it.”

He salutes, skirting around them. Lindsay grumbles something about how he best not drip on her floor before turning her gaze back to Ryan.

“So you got blown up huh?”

“...Yeah?”

“Good, should happen to everyone at least once in their life. You want something to drink?”

He gets the distinct impression Lindsay lives her life at a different speed than most other people. She’s already moving to a little bar tucked into a corner of the porch, digging around until she finds what looks to be an incredibly expensive bottle of some form of unknown alcohol. He shakes his head, leaving her to shrug and pour herself one. The three of them chat mildly for a minute, in which he learns about a few different things, mainly their particular subsidiary gang, before Jeremy finally reappears, redressed with his hair stuck up in random angles, his boxers half-dried and wadded in his hands. Lindsay slams the rest of her drink and leads them back through the house to the front. Ryan’s starting to think the two ladies are trying to intimidate him.

It’s working.

It doesn’t help that when Jeremy goes to toss his boxers in the trunk of the Adder and retrieve some rifles for them Ryan simultaneously realizes he’s commando now and sees the two of them grinning at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s fairly certain this is his hell.

They all pile into the Windsor Drop, Meg driving, Lindsay beside her, the two of them in the back. Jeremy hands Ryan his mask.

The rest of the day is...fun, surprisingly. They keep the roof down, some random radio channel blaring as they veer through the city, stopping every once in awhile so Lindsay can step out and into a store, retrieving payments with all the sharp elegance someone could ever need. Meg keeps her hand on the wheel, the two of them with their rifles ready in their laps in case someone decides to argue. 

At some point during the day he and Jeremy wind up with their thighs pressed against each other. He blames it on the way the car hits the corners. By the time the sun starts setting the trunk is almost bursting with bags of cash, they're all grinning and laughing, Ryan’s arm has wound up around Jeremy at some point, it's all very good.

Meg drives them down to the pier, her and Lindsay dragging the two of them out of the car and up onto the boardwalk. Ryan watches in wonder as people clear their paths for the two Poppies, especially with Jeremy at their side and his own towering form following behind. The Burger Shot clears almost immediately when they enter, especially when Jeremy unslings the rifle from his back and methodically shoots out the cameras. He gives credit to the person behind the counter, who takes their order with the same exhausted apathy that he gets the impression they would do otherwise. When the food arrives Lindsay easily pays before dropping a handful of hundreds into the tip jar, grinning at the kid’s shocked expression as she scoops up one of the trays and leads them to one of the booths by the window. She piles in, Meg beside her, he and Jeremy doing the same on the other side. Jeremy and Lindsay dive into their burgers, Ryan putting faith into the darkness of the evening and the demolished nature of the cameras to eat some of Jeremy’s fries, his mask pushed up onto his head, Meg devouring both her salad and a few bites of Lindsay’s food. They chat aimlessly as they eat, Ryan listening to the various stories that the rest of them have to tell. With a little pushing he shares the last few minutes before the explosion, debating with Lindsay on what might have been inside the various untouched boxes. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jeremy staring but he’s too interested in his discussion to do so.

Lindsay leaves another tip on the table as they leave. She shrugs when he asks why.

“I worked similar when I was a kid. They don’t pay shit. Also it means they won’t call the cops on us as soon as they leave.”

He thinks they’ll be leaving as they pile into the car but instead they curve off as soon as they’re out of the lot, driving out onto the sand until they find a quiet spot close enough to the lights but far enough for privacy. Meg digs around into the glove compartment as they park, producing a few grenades with a grin. The way the two others match her smile tells him that this isn’t exactly a rare occurrence. 

They spend another hour or two on the beach, chucking grenades out towards the water. Once or twice they go far and fast, exploding in midair, other times they splash down, a blast of water spraying high. It takes Ryan’s breath away each time, one time grabbing Jeremy’s arm in blatant glee as he throws it far and far and far away. At one point Meg calls him over to where she’s sitting on the car hood, gestures him down to her level and has him turn. Her elegant fingers card through his hair with practiced ease, pulling his mussed hair back bit by bit until she manages to get it into a hairtie.

“You’re just long enough and it’s been pissing me off.”

He snorts and she responds by smacking him on the shoulder.

“You’ll thank me when you’re fighting with someone and they make a grab for your hair. I’d suggest a bun if it gets long enough. Also maybe swing by sometime and we’ll show you some shit.”

The casual acceptance warms him inside.

When they finally elect to go home it’s because Ryan’s painkillers are wearing off, and Lindsay’s leg has started to become sore. It’s casual comfort as they drive back to the stilt apartment, waving goodbye as he and Jeremy pile back into the Adder. He can’t help but smile as they pull away, seeing Meg’s head resting against her girlfriend’s shoulder. 

Jeremy gets out of the car with him as they pull up in front of his apartment complex. Ryan watches him curiously, mask tucked under his arm. Instead of saying anything, Jeremy lights a cigarette, taking a drag before handing it over to him.

“So, good day right?”

The smoke feels good in his lungs.

“Yeah, good day back.”

“Would you mind a little heist thing in like...a week. Just a little thing, still working you back into it.”

Ryan does the quick math in his head.

“...Halloween?”

“Yep, we do it yearly. It’ll be really lowkey, not even a bank. We might just fuck around, Geoff hasn’t decided yet. It’ll be fun, promise.”

He huffs, takes another drag. If he’s being honest, he’s begun to miss the rush of a heist. 

“Yeah sure.”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of Jeremy’s grin. He lifts his fingers for another drag, only to realize it isn’t in his hand anymore. He looks up to see Jeremy holding it yet again, breathing the smoke in deep, like he’s preparing.

“Hey…”

Smoke escapes from the corner of the mouth as the smile widens a little and then he’s not standing there anymore, instead he’s closer, his lips against Ryan’s, pushing the smoke out and into his lungs in turn. Ryan blinks, startled, but before he can react Jeremy’s back in his car, giving a little salute before he’s driving away.

He doesn’t move from his space as the Adder disappears, hand reaching up to touch his lips, the smoke still curling in his lungs.


	17. Chapter 17

Let us take our eyes away, just for a moment, from the man still standing in the shadows of the night, and turn them instead upon the man in the car who left him there. 

Jeremy does not have the calm he pretended to have just a few minutes ago. Instead he shakes, trembles, breathes hard through his nose because _shit shit shit he just kissed the Vagabond._

This isn't the first time he's had a crush on someone he's worked with, far from it. If he's being honest he's still head over tails for the five who took him in after his near-death, but this is different, this is the fucking _Vagabond._ This is blood and gore and death and yeah he's found the laughing smiling soft side of the man but that doesn't mean he hasn't also witnessed him gut a man like a fish, hasn't seen the way he holds his knives like they're sacrifices to some dark god. 

Yes, he's dug out the man beneath the mask, but the reaper still takes souls, no matter what's beneath. 

He sucks another shaky breath, glances at the phone in the seat next to him. He could text him, act like nothing happened, pray he's not going to wake up one night with the boogeyman looming over his bed, ready to kill him for taking it one step too far. 

But had he gone too far? All day Ryan had been close to him, had been responding actively to the little touches he gave, calming him with his presence and reassuring him that he wasn't some ghost, that he was flesh and blood and bone, healing and alive. Ryan had wrapped his arm around him in the car, had grabbed him at the beach, had almost certainly been staring at him at the pool. Unless he read all that wrong….

A car honks wildly as he very nearly clips it, swerving sharply around a corner. He shakes his head, huffs.

He needs to go home. Hopefully he’ll still be alive to figure it out in the morning. 

Ryan, or more accurately the slightly panicked man beneath, is having very similar thoughts. He washes off his confidence, takes off his guile, folds it all up and hides it away. It takes him minutes upon minutes to realize his hand keeps tracing back to his lips. 

When he sleeps that night he dreams of smoke and colors, of strength coiled into compact power, of calloused hands reaching and touching and when he wakes later he realizes with mild shame that he….needs a cold shower. Maybe multiple. 

It doesn't go away after a day. It doesn't go away when Jeremy texts him an update on the plan, strikes up a conversation like nothing happened, like there isn't this strange and nameless thing festering low in his gut, egged on by warmth and laughter.

The dream happens again, and again. He forces it to stop by working his body until everything is sore and he can do nothing but shower and sleep. 

Maybe once or twice he lets himself slip beneath the spray, lets his mind and hands wander. He refuses to acknowledge those moments. 

Ryan stretches in his skin whenever it happens, antsy. James breathes until the feeling settles, huffs in frustration at his own actions. 

Finally, the week passes, Jeremy appears outside his apartment complex, sitting on his car as though the last few days have started anew and they’re about to go out with Lindsay and Meg again. But it’s different, even though they smile and joke, there’s something between them, something pulled taut like a string waiting to be cut or pulled.

Jeremy drives them back out to the penthouse, driving down the ramp to the apparently massive parking complex beneath. 

Ryan wonders offhand if Ramsey had a hand in the building’s design, as this is absolutely not up to code. Jeremy laughs aloud and as always, the world feels caught by that sound.

The rest are waiting there, mostly around the eternally horrifying Roosevelt, though Ramsey sits on his own, an equally horrifying bright pink Zentorno, watching them with a smile. They all look towards him as he steps from the car and he bites down the strong urge to wave awkwardly at them, settling instead for a nod. 

It feels different here too. There feels like there's less open suspicion, Michael even cracks a crooked smile at him, however slight, though the Brit still glances between him and Jeremy like he knows something he couldn't possibly know. He turns his gaze towards Ramsey instead of the group.

“So what's the plan then boss?”

Ramsey flashes him that same grin from nearly a month ago.

“Nothing much. Figure we hit up a little bank and then maybe get some costumes and raid a few stores, maybe grenade a few rich people houses. Oh and there’s a store that’s already selling Christmas stuff so if we can torch that while we’re at it, I’ll consider it a good night. Pretty lowkey.”

Ryan thinks offhand that maybe criminals have a different idea of lowkey from most people, not that he’s complaining. Except…

“Costumes, really?”

“Yeah man, Halloween spirit and all that shit.”

Jeremy elbows him playfully.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find you something that doesn’t impede on all your intimidating-ness.”

Ryan hums noncommittally, but nods all the same.

“Alright, sounds like a plan.”

They all pile into the Roosevelt, Ryan crammed thoroughly between Jeremy and the window, viscerally aware of how much they’re touching each other. He keeps his eyes on the window, endlessly grateful for his mask hiding how red his face is. Ramsey sits up front with the driver and the Brit sits unabashedly halfway across both Michael and Jeremy, chatting away like this isn’t anything different from normal. It doesn’t take long to get to the bank, it’s not overly far from the penthouse, and Ramsey hands out rifles from a bag at his feet like candy. Everyone except the driver piles out, though Ramsey tells him to stay outside and watch the car. Keeping an eye on his health, whether or not he wants to.

He leans against the side of the car, rifle held lazily in his hand. The driver turns on the radio, hums quietly to it as he taps his hands against the wheel. It’s quiet for long enough that Ryan turns back to look at him, a thought coming to mind.

“Why don’t you go in if I’m out here? Can’t imagine the cops get here very fast.”

The driver laughs, removes a hand from the wheel and leans closer so he can see the scars across it, patterned heavily at the joints.

“I did underground fighting for years before I hooked up with Geoff, bare-knuckle boxing and the like. Left me with bad scar tissue and some arthritis in my joints, makes holding a gun for a long time difficult, same thing with holding a fist. Can if need be, but I prefer to stay in the car or in a cockpit where I can keep the air warm and can loosen up my hands if need be.”

The smile on his face is warm, accepting. There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his eyes as he tilts the hand out for him to shake.

“I’m sure you’ve heard my name from the others but I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself. I’m Jack.”

Ryan eyes the hand for a second before huffing, reaching out to shake it. It’s surprisingly strong, calloused but soft.

“Vagabond.”

The driver snorts, putting his hand back on the wheel.

“That I knew. But hey, your privacy is your privacy. Me? I’ve got a good feeling about you. I think you’ll do fine here, no matter what we do to you. You managed to get Michael to accept you, that’s all the proof I need.”

Ryan quirks his head at him, unsure of what to say to that. Thankfully he doesn’t have to think of anything, the sound of the alarms going off inside enough to silence any thought either of them might have had. He flicks the safety off his rifle, eyeing the street in case anyone wants to try something. Ramsey charges out of the bank first, followed closely by the younger trio, all of them carrying heavy banker bags and laughing. It takes a matter of seconds for them to all pile in, though Ryan can tell that it’ll take longer for him to get in and he can already hear the distant sirens. He slams the door, stepping up onto the running boards. The driver gets the message, rolls down the window enough for him to hang on before taking off. They’re long gone before the cops can get there.

Response time always was shit in this area. Ryan blames traffic. 

Despite the breakneck speeds, he never feels in danger as they speed down the road, the driver keeping his side of the vehicle well-clear of any other cars or hazards. It makes the wind rush past his face, the more compact nature of his new mask allowing him to feel it as it powers past his ears, crawls through his hair. He doesn’t realize he’s laughing until he glances down to Jeremy in the window, staring up at him with nothing short of wonder. He smiles at him, hoping that the emotion transfers through his gaze. Apparently it does because Jeremy grins back, the tips of his ears going bright red.

They drive for a ways, going until they hit the beach, a series of cheap Halloween stores having cropped up around Vespucci Masks. He hops down onto the ground as they come to a stop, quickly tossing his rifle back into the car before anyone notices. It hits the Brit in the thigh, draws a startled yelp from him to the humor of everyone else in the vehicle. 

The kid behind the counter of the first store they go in doesn’t even look up from their magazine, simply flipping a page as they lose themselves deeper into the racks. He doesn’t see anything that catches his eye, wandering aimlessly. He stretches, trying to keep his mostly-healed muscles from getting too sore. The movement makes his jacket clink quietly, finally heard now that there’s no wind or sirens. Curiously, he sticks his hand in the pocket and retrieves what’s making noise, the keys to the Zentorno. He’d forgotten they’d wound up there last week, too distracted by the thoughts of chapped lips and mixed colors. 

“Hey, hey Ryan look what I found.”

Speak of the devil. 

He turns, seeing Jeremy there with a massive grin on his face. He’s already found a loose poet’s blouse with a vest to match, an eyepatch flipped open above his eye. Ryan hopes his skepticism bleeds into the air around them.

“Isn’t your eyesight bad enough already?”

Jeremy snorts, elbows him lightly. 

“I meant look at what I found for you asshole.”

He holds up two items. One, a cheap leather collar with a bell on it. The other, a headband with little fuzzy ears on them. He actually lifts an eyebrow beneath the mask.

“What happened to ‘finding something that doesn’t impede on my intimidating-ness’?”

The shorter man just grins broader, unabashed.

“Yeah but this is better right? And if anyone can make kitty cat ears intimidating it’s you. Besides, I’d prefer not to lose you somewhere tonight. The bell will help.”

Ryan crosses his arms, unimpressed. Jeremy gives his best pouting expression, complete with puppy dog eyes.

God fucking dammit. 

“Jesus christ, _fine_. But if I find out any of you took photos I _will_ gut everyone, starting with you.”

Jeremy doesn’t look like he takes the threat remotely serious. He just lets out a sound of pure joy and drags Ryan down close enough to plant the headband just behind his mask, locking the collar tight enough around his throat that it doesn’t slide around.

Something clicks in his head when Jeremy tugs on it to test it, something warm and safe. He hums slightly, distantly, earning a crooked smile from his friend. He gives it another little tug, straightens him up.

“There, still intimidating. Scary kitty.”

Ryan shakes his head, bringing himself back to reality.

“Say that again and I’m going to kill you.”

Jeremy backs up a step and Ryan knows what he’s going to do before he does it. 

“Scary kitty.”

And then he takes off into the aisles, losing Ryan with ease. He huffs, smiling despite himself. Asshole. 

It takes a while for everyone to make their way back up front, Jeremy appearing last when he’s dead certain Ryan won’t actually kill him. Doesn’t stop him from hip-checking him hard onto his ass though. Jeremy lands with a crash, laughing his ass off, bright and wonderful. Ryan turns his eyes away from the sight, looking around at the others. Ramsey, with fake fangs and a velvet cape and the driver, Jack, wearing a skeleton shirt instead of a full suit, their faces both done up with a hurried excuse for paint. Michael, apparently having found a cheap plastic forked trident and a pair of red horns, has a pointed tail pinned to the back of his shirt, grinning with matching devilish delight. And the Brit, dressed in what looks far too professional to be a fake cop outfit with a pair of shiny gold stars pinned to his lapel.

They all look ridiculous. It works, somehow. The cashier, still completely unimpressed despite looking up at them, takes the various tags and checks them out, taking Geoff’s card with a world-weary sigh and reminding them that the store does _not_ accept returns. By the time they all pile back into the Roosevelt, Ryan actually cramming himself in this time, the sun has started to edge towards the horizon, painting the monumental heights of Los Santos with appropriately haunting light.

They don’t wind up raiding a few stores, at least not for money, mostly because they wind up passing by the store that indeed was full of Christmas merchandise and Ramsey insists they stop, having them all dig around until they find enough to throw together a few molotovs, a venture which quickly descends into all of them hanging out the windows, tossing bottles of fire and who knows what else at any sight of green and red they happen to see. Which of course leads to emptying out the nearest liquor store and making a lot more molotovs.

By the time the sun finally disappears below the horizon a good quarter of the city is on fire, the sirens echoing over the hills, all of them laughing and reveling in the flames. They do follow through with assaulting a few rich homes, though mostly with what remains of their molotovs instead. Finally Jack drives them out to the Vinewood Bowl and they all sit on the stage, watching the colors on the horizon. Ryan finds himself chatting and laughing with all of them without any hesitation, a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers with his arm propped up on his knee. 

At some point or another Ramsey, full on his own power, claims that he _absolutely_ can take the Vagabond in a fight. Jeremy tries to defend him, pointing out that he’s still injured to some degree, but Ryan has no problem taking him up on that bet, pinning the crime boss with ease. That somehow leads to the younger trio tackling him back onto the concrete beneath him. 

It’s a good night, one that doesn’t end with all of them backing away from him as if he’s a snake about to bite. 

What it does end with is he and Jeremy walking side by side back to the Roosevelt, the others still distracted back on the stage. He feels light, safe, giddy with the sight of destruction and the warmth of companionship, his mask held loosely in his fingers. When they stop in front of the car and Jeremy turns to face him, mouth forming words he doesn’t quite register, it doesn’t take a second thought to lean down and kiss him, free hand settling softly against his hip. Jeremy freezes, surprised, before kissing back with all of the enthusiasm of a man proven right. 

Somewhere along the way, the mask hits the dirt, their hands on each other, feeling across the skin found beneath the match of shirt and denim, one set of calloused digits tucked into the leather of the collar to keep him close.

A theatrically over-the-top retching sound drags them apart, nothing but the darkness of the night to hide how they’re both flustered, red all the way to their ears. They both turn to see Michael and the Brit, walking up to the car to catch up with them. The Brit’s the one retching, exceedingly dramatic, but Michael doesn’t look angry, doesn’t even look surprised. There’s something in his gaze, amused but different, though in the shadows Ryan can’t tell quite what.

Ryan stoops quickly to retrieve the mask, putting it back on his face before he can reveal himself to be any more human. It doesn’t seem to make any difference. The Brit relentlessly teases Jeremy, both Michael and him fixing Ryan looks that say they both would be doing it to him too if they felt it necessary. He only finally shuts up when Geoff and Jack start making their way back as well. 

They drive back in silence but it’s amicable, the kind of silence that comes when everyone is a little tired after a long day of a good time. At some point Jeremy’s hand winds up resting against his thigh, the only sound the one of the Brit snoring as he appears to sleep soundly across his two crewmates. 

When they finally return to the penthouse Ramsey offers offhand to him that the room he recovered in is still open if he wants it, already heading towards the elevator with Jack at his side. Michael drags Jeremy away before he can add anything more, the mechanical doors shutting on his shy wave goodbye. It takes him a second, full of warmth, to realize that he’s not alone.

“You’re good for him, has anyone told you that?”

He turns, sees the Brit, looking like he wasn’t even remotely just passed out in the car, leaning against a sleek black vehicle with slight green accents. 

“...More or less.”

The younger man grins, shrugs, looking far more clever, far more knowledgeable, than anyone ever should.

“One of the Poppies I’m guessing? They like to matchmake, probably because all of us spent ages trying to matchmake them, but it doesn’t mean they’re wrong. Jeremy needs someone he can rely on, even more than us. Someone who isn’t going to bullshit him because he’s almost gotten his bloody ass killed for us before. You’re going to keep him safe, even from us, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t give Ryan time to answer, instead fixing him with an unreadable look.

“Jeremy’s loyal, that’s what comes out of him more than anything else. If anyone got their hands on him, other gangs, bad guys, cops, he’d rather die than give any of us up. No matter what they would tell him, no matter what they’d do to him, he’d keep quiet, because that’s just how he is. Cops especially, they’d kill him if he ever wound up in handcuffs, just because he won’t ever crack. I’ve done my best to keep him, to keep all of us, out from anyone’s thumb, but I think you’ll be just the push we need to make sure none of them can touch us ever again. I bloody well expect you won’t let us down.”

Confusion strikes through Ryan like a dagger, struck dumb as the Brit knocks the hood of the car slightly, pushes off from it. The smile on the Brit’s face is nothing short of poisonous.

“Got it armored and made sure it got a new paintjob. Makes you look like one of the crew I think. You’ve got the keys, don’t you?”

With that he brushes past Ryan, disappears like nothing short of a ghost. He realizes the car before him is his Zentorno, the paint job from a matter of months ago redone, vastly more expensive and so much better. Something feels wrong with the words still ringing in his head, something deeper that he can’t sift out. He feels the keys in his jacket and they feel like a promise he doesn’t know how to do anything but keep.

The car roars to life as he turns the key, the sound echoing as he drives out, careens down the street, windows open and the wind rushing through his hair like it had hours before. He shouts into the night, powerful and gleeful and so many other things, something feeling different in his mind, in his soul. Somewhere not far behind him someone else screams ecstatic into his pillow, that tight string tangled close inside of him, a cord made unbreakable, reaching out into the sky.

Ryan doesn’t go home that night. He drives and drives and drives, shouting, laughing, beyond words and understanding of what he feels. It feels like there’s a puzzle fitting together, a monster wild and free stretching in his skin, just waiting for a reason to get out.

It feels like warmth. 

It feels like belonging.

It feels like home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: When I write I do shit like figure out how stuff works in comparison to the real GTA map and designs. Like how there's a Fleeca Bank like four blocks from Eclipse Towers. Or how the Roosevelt technically has a capacity of four people inside the car and two outside of it but the seats aren't separate so you could absolutely cram more people in there if you had to. I put way too much effort into this fic and I really hope you guys like it.


	18. Chapter 18

He doesn’t feel like going back to his quiet little apartment once he finally calms down, the sun far over the horizon. Instead he wraps his mask and knives in the jacket, stuffs it all as deep into the passenger wheel well, finding the glove compartment full of paper bills and one shiny gold lighter. The headband was lost somewhere along the night, he’s unsure where. He washes off the paint as best he can in a convenience store bathroom, nods to the visibly hungover cashier as he loads up on snacks and coffee and cigarettes, paying with those bills just to assure himself they aren’t fake. 

They aren’t. 

Across the street there’s a discount store, one where he finds a beanie, sunglasses and a rave mask to go with it, smiling for a minute at the skeletal jaw patterned on the seamless bandana-like material. He finds a clean shirt on one of the racks, the words long since faded from decipherability, and adds that to his pile as well. From the way that the person behind the counter doesn’t look twice at him, he assumes he looks like some other random post-Halloween idiot, looking for some way to hide his shame, even if their gaze lingers temporarily on the scar on his face.

He doesn’t feel any different, paint or no. Still feels warm, safe, that steady feeling of rightness, even as he tugs on the new shirt over his healing scars, his worn jeans with the gun tucked in the waistband. There’s still mud and ash on his boots, still the grasp of someone else wrapped firmly around his heart.

The sunglasses block out the rising sun, the heavy lenses covering a surprising portion of his face, the beanie keeping his increasingly in-the-way hair safely out of his face. He drives down to the beach, sits his ass in the sand with his coffee and a few cheap store goodies, hand already going to his phone to text Jeremy that if he wants to join him, he’s not far from where they spent the evening with Lindsay and Meg.

He knows it’s early. He isn’t surprised that he dozes off in the shade his car gives, whole ensemble still on, awoken god knows how long later by an shoulder bumping gently into his. Jeremy smiles down at him with nothing but warmth, soaking in how close they can be now, side by side as he settles next to him.

“Take it you didn’t sleep last night?”

“No, wasn’t tired.”

Jeremy snorts in disbelief, eyes the mask tugged up over his face but makes no effort to move it, appreciating the appropriateness of the design.

“Thinking about things?” 

“More just enjoying the night.”

He eyes the last few crumbs of pastries, the dregs of his coffee, huffs in a way that makes Jeremy laugh.

“Everything about the night?”

Ryan eyes him, knowing the look transfers even with so much of his face covered. 

“Yes idiot, everything.”

“Well it's hard to tell, considering I can't really kiss you like this.”

He hums, reaches up a hand to play with the edge of the form-fitting mask, debating. Jeremy settles in more comfortably beside him, still talking.

“I get it though, I’m not going to push you. Your privacy is your privacy and I get not wanting to show off everything just yet. And besides-”

“Shut up and close your eyes idiot.”

Hearing that phrase twice in as many days is more than enough to annoy him, to remind him that there’s a reason he has privacy and it’s not for his own personal safely. Jeremy grins, shuts his eyes obediently. Ryan pulls down the mask, shifts to plant one on him, feeling like a kid stealing affections beneath the bleachers all over again. When finally he pulls away, Jeremy keeps his eyes shut for a few seconds more, waiting patiently for him to pull the mask up over his nose again. Ryan realizes that at some point during the kiss he wound up on top of the younger man, straddling him, one of Jeremy’s hands playfully rubbing his thigh. The other holds up a cheap little bell, grinning as he shakes it, though it barely jangles, a little dented from the previous night’s adventures.

“You’re still wearing it, you know that?”

Confused, he reaches up to the throat and confirms that yes, he is still wearing the cheap leather band, strapped tightly around his throat. He’d totally forgotten about it. Jeremy’s grin looks like a kid at Christmas. 

“It looks good on you. Makes you look all tough, especially with that mask on. We should get you one with spikes.”

Ryan rolls his eyes but doesn’t make a move to remove it, especially when Jeremy tosses the bell to let his hands wander, feeling over where the leather meets skin, up to knock his beanie free, to get a hand through his no doubt messy hair. He feels the sudden urge to purr, buries it by instead putting a hand over Jeremy’s eyes, letting him get the message as he pulls the mask back down again.

He doesn’t know how long they kiss, Jeremy’s hands traveling, playful and interested, exploring every inch of him they can reach. All he knows is that what separates them is his stomach growling, Jeremy breaking away to giggle helplessly. Ryan smacks his shoulder lightly, bumping their foreheads together before he slides off him, opens the door to the Zentorno to dig through his remaining snacks.. He knows he must look a mess, but he can’t really bring himself to care, not really. 

“Shut up.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

Jeremy settles on the hood, stares out at the water as he sits across the passenger seat, devouring his snacks with his boots hanging out into the sand. 

“So I take it Gav did all this to your car? No one else was around it as far as I can remember.”

It takes him a minute to connect the name to the Brit again, always forgetting that he does indeed have a name that a few of them use. Same with Jack, but at least Jack was pleasant enough to introduce himself. In response, his mouth full of chips, Ryan pulls the gold lighter out of the glove compartment, tosses it over the door and into his lap. Jeremy fumbles it for a moment, examines it with a laugh. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised, he’s good with locks. Didn’t know he knew how to jump a car though.”

Ryan laughs at that, disbelieving. Jumping a car seems like a requisite skill, though he’ll admit he doesn’t know how to either.

“I’m serious! He’s super secretive, spends a lot of free time on his computer just...doing shit to the city. Fucking with the traffic cameras and shit. We’re always learning new shit about him. I think he gets a kick out of it.”

Ryan thinks about the strange words the Brit gave him in the garage the night previous, the strange unsaid promise he feels bound to keep. The officer outfit that had to have been real. Yeah, getting a kick out of being mysterious seems like something he’d do.

Distantly, he wonders that if he has to turn them all in, maybe he can work it so Jeremy escapes scot-free. There’s got to be a way to do that right?

Right?

Jeremy leans back across the hood, stretches in a way that shows off far too much skin for his own sanity.

“Either way I like it, makes you look like you belong with us. Which you do, if that wasn’t obvious already. Which it should have been. Me making out with you repeatedly should be proof enough. You’ve always got a job with us if you want it, I’m always going to do my best to make sure of that. Sure the others will too. You’re pretty much part of the crew after all you’ve done, official or not.”

The honesty makes something twist sickly in his chest, appetite suddenly gone. Suddenly the comfort of the collar feels choking. He pulls it off, stuffs it down into the seat well with the remaining snacks, with the jacket and the mask and everything he wants to be. He gets back out of the car, pulling the mask back up as he shuts the door, stepping away towards the water without another word. Jeremy seems to know he’s brushed up against a button he shouldn’t be pushing, sliding off the hood with a gentle frown. He approaches, hesitates before he touches, unsure if he can breach that boundary to comfort him after being the one to put him on edge. Ryan sighs weakly, leans back to encourage the touch, a weak reminder of that warmth edging through the sickness as Jeremy wraps his arms around him, rests his head against his shoulder.

He doesn’t try to take back what he’s said, doesn’t try to make it better, instead starting to ramble about things they can spend the day doing if he wants. In that moment, Ryan appreciates it, appreciates _him_ , more than anything. It’s not Jeremy’s fault, he couldn’t have known. He can’t know that everything that makes him feel at home is built on lies, on someone that he isn’t really, no matter how much he increasingly wants to be. In that one moment, he hates himself more than anything. 

How fucking stupid can he be? Thinking that he can have this, that he can be allowed to want this?

Well...maybe he can be stupid until it all goes to hell. Let himself have something to counter the sick feeling inside. He turns in Jeremy’s arms, nuzzles against him. He isn't sure what this thing they have is, this strange affectionate thing, but if he can have it for a little while longer, he might as well cling to the feeling.

They don't stay on the beach for too long after that. Ryan wants to distance himself from his thoughts, focus more on the good time presented before him, and Jeremy seems to understand that. It doesn't lead to more mayhem and destruction though, which honestly leaves Ryan mildly surprised. What does happen is Jeremy texts someone to come get his car and settles instead inside the Zentorno, trying his best not to kick the parcel in the seat well as he directs them to the nearest cinema. He sneaks them in the back and they sit together in the dark of an empty theater, playfully mocking the movie as it goes, despite having missed probably the first hour. 

Jeremy tangles their fingers together as he laughs uproariously, a font of joy. They spend most of the rest of the day there, in which they discover Ryan’s improper reactions to jumpscares, and Jeremy’s surprising attachment to terrible romantic comedies. When they leave late that afternoon, they argue only semi-seriously about the cliched tropes inherent in most every romance, hands still tangled tight together.

Ryan drops off Jeremy at the penthouse, waves him off when he reminds him that he’s welcome to stay. Jeremy kisses him goodbye over the synthetic mask. Ryan drives back to his little apartment with a smile on his face, the uncomfortable thoughts of the morning long forgotten.

Jeremy doesn’t let him crawl back inside himself either. If they’re not together he texts, never about jobs, always about something pointless or random. Every day or two he invites him out, takes him random places. One day they spend atop a half-constructed skyscraper, Jeremy trying to each Ryan the basics of freerunning and laughing himself hoarse, the next they spend in a strip mall trying on whatever horrible thing catches Jeremy’s eye. Once or twice that day they wind up in the dressing room together, edging on something more before Jeremy backs off, gives him his space, never pushes his privacy or his intentions, always letting Ryan dictate what they do, when they kiss, never once sneaking a look at his unhidden face. Sometimes he even pulls the material back up before he opens his eyes, always smiling, always trusting.

A handful of times they go out for some of their old kind of fun, harassing shop owners and causing general mayhem. Jeremy always revels in his capability to touch and feel on those days, calloused thumbs brushing cheekbones and jawlines and scars as they kiss. He always does it in the dark, when they’re alone and no one can possibly watch, can see the Vagabond in what might be seen as a moment of weakness.

James always gets texts after those days, calls and voicemails labeling body counts and dollar counts and demands for information. They haven’t received a wire transfer in forever, Ryan wonders how on edge that’s making the higher-ups, lacking the blood money to gentrify the tiny little rooms. He scoffs, sends vague little texts back about being busy or being ‘very close’, lying through his teeth and through his fingers, not feeling quite like the reputable cop he knows he should be. 

He doesn’t let himself think about it too much, always finding something else to do if Jeremy isn’t at his phone, isn’t there to keep him company. He works out, scopes areas of town he never used to set foot in before, spends less and less and less time in his little apartment, spends more time out on the town, occasionally at the penthouse proper, always casually masked or painted. The others aren’t always there, in fact they rarely are, suspicious enough that he thinks either Jeremy or one of them is conspiring to keep them alone together, but when they are he finds it easy enough to spend time around, without all of the old tension, though some still remains.

More than once, he sleeps in that room that has somehow become his own. Things of his wind up staying there, even though at first he doesn’t realize. An extra shirt here, a gun there. Usually when Jeremy instructs him to bring something for whatever adventure he has planned, and then he doesn’t feel like lugging it all the way back home. The apartment grows increasingly barren, the apartment room increasingly like home.

Thus goes a week, two weeks, three. Ryan spends more and more time fitting into his skin, stretching the monster in his bones. Jeremy travels with him, takes him north and drags him onto the cable car that brings them up and up to the top of Chiliad, laughing when he mistrustfully eyes the windows around them. They sit amongst the rocks and the sparse grass, watching the world below. Jeremy tugs him until he lays against him, resting his head in his lap and letting the much younger man card his hands through his hair, quiet and comfortable. Gentle sounds escape from him once or twice, heady contented noises, always given a response through a gentle scratch of his head, his eyes shut to revel in it all. Jeremy talks nonsense, throws things out into the air with a voice no louder than a rumble, with eyes only for the man against him, nothing else in the world ever as beautiful. He talks about friends, about jobs and things that he’s done, things that he wants to do, talks about excess and travesties, makes him laugh whenever he can, steals his sunglasses just because. He teases softly about piercings and tattoos, about the version of events he now knows led to them, talks about the colors fading in his hair, the ones that make him look like the setting sun, implies that if Ryan ever wanted to, they could see what colors might work for him too, emphasizing with a soft little tug on his lengthening strands.

Ryan wonders, content and heavy and slow, if Jeremy knows just how tight of a vice he’s clamping around his soul. 

They stay up there until nightfall, watching the world that might as well be theirs, glass and sand and metal, lit ablaze by the best kind of fire.

That night, as Jeremy parks before his complex, steps out to kiss him goodbye, Ryan pulls the fabric down, kisses him full and open and oh so quietly, oh so nervously, invites him inside.

The smile Jeremy gives him could light up the stars.

In the morning Ryan wakes in a warm bed, the pillow beside him still dented from weight. He finds his pants, follows the sound of humming and the scent of something good into his kitchen, to the body currently digging through his cupboards. He drags the blanket with him, wraps it around the both of them with a morning grumble. Jeremy changes the tune of his humming into a greeting, squirms until he’s facing the bedheaded worn out excuse for the terrifying Vagabond. He laughs, admiring the string of bitemarks up and down Ryan’s throat, across his chest, curling attractively down to the line of his pants, back up to the unhidden curves of his face, taking him in with the same incredible intensity that Ryan discovered the night before. Then he grins, playfully.

“You have jack shit in your fridge. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. I get that you’ve been all nomadic and shit but no one should have this many frozen meals in their house. You’re so lucky I found the staples of eggs and bacon. Also that I’m not Geoff, he might have had a heard attack.”

Ryan kisses him to shut him up. It’s very effective. Unfortunately it leads to a burning of that first batch of bacon, both of them distracted by the extent of exploration their hands have, but that’s alright. It’s the warmest the apartment’s ever felt, as far as Ryan’s concerned, and the fact that suddenly his showers don’t have to be cold anymore certainly helps, especially when there’s another set of hands involved.

The best part of it is probably that nothing much changes after that. Despite the massive set of leaps their relationship has made it’s still playful, still fun. It only makes the little things better. Jeremy takes him down to the boardwalk, spends fifteen minutes deciding on what kind of ice cream works best for the cooling weather, drags him onto the ferris wheel out on the pier so they can eat them in peace. He doesn’t question why Ryan keeps wearing the mask when they’re out, understands that even if the cops can’t seem to land anything on him, understands his paranoia, but decides that just because he can’t kiss him easy doesn’t mean he can’t leave plenty of marks where the mask ends and his shoulders begin. They spend a day driving, discover that while getting handsy in the car is not as easy as the movies would make it seem, skinny dipping in the waters of the Paleto Cove are just as fun. Ryan takes his time in the moonlight to become as acquainted as he can with as many of Jeremy’s scars as he can, putting the stories he tells to memory. The others pick up on how often Jeremy isn’t at the penthouse, send Ryan texts again, more playfully threatening this time around, though there are a few jokes thrown back and forth about chaperoning.

Jeremy, one afterglow-heavy night, pillows his head against the softness of Ryan’s thigh, rubs his thumb against the skin of the other, hums lazily about how it would be nice to have something there. He traces out a design over and over until Ryan shivers, bats him playfully away. Forgets about it until Jeremy shows up at his door with a bag of bottles and festive food, well past Thanksgiving and less than a day before the next month proper, knowing Ryan won’t complain when presented with such treats, arguing that it’s a stupid holiday anyways and they shouldn’t need a reason to eat stupid amounts of bread and sugar. Forgets about it until well later in that night when they’re both stuffed and drunk and Jeremy reveals that he also has a stick and poke kit, complete with ink from ‘a reliable source’. And Ryan knows, knows that this is some strange barrier they haven’t crossed yet. Knows also that he’s incredibly more likely to agree to this sort of thing while drunk, something he knows Jeremy knows, if the unabashed grin on his face is anything to go by. He huffs while Jeremy wheedles, knowing that sooner or later he’ll give in.

It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, though he thinks that might be a mix of the alcohol and knowing what getting blown up feels like and also the way Jeremy keeps touching and kissing the skin around where he works as if that’ll help make it feel better. Ryan isn’t going to tell him that it apparently does. When he finally lets Ryan see, they both wind up giggling, even as Ryan feels something warm and strange twist excitedly in his heart.

It’s the logo, the strange thing that the Fakes consider to be their symbol. It’s a little crooked, the colors a little too vibrant, everything just a little off, but it’s there, a mark of belonging that he doesn’t need to say aloud. He drags Jeremy up, kisses him to taste blood and ink and whiskey. He wants to cling to him, to flip them and straddle him, but Jeremy hushes him, takes care of him, bandages him up and takes him apart, thumbing the silver of the piercing as Ryan screams for him, long and loud.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight.

In the morning they’re woken almost simultaneously by their phones ringing. There’s humor to be found in the sound of their near-identical groans of barely-functional distress. Ryan barely even takes the energy to glance at his phone, identifying the number quickly as one of the precinct lines, though not one he recognizes off the bat. He silences it, tossing it to land somewhere amongst their long discarded clothes to be dealt with later. Jeremy, having rolled over to grab his phone, turns back over to plaster himself against Ryan’s back again, mumbling nonsensically into his phone as he finds much more interest in kissing along the back of Ryan’s ear. Finally whoever’s on the other end of the line lets him hand up and he abandons his phone to the depths of across the room as well, wrapping his arms tightly back around his abdomen, hand traveling in a soothing pet across the softness of his stomach to his hip, relaxing them both back in the direction of sleep.

Later, after a few more hours of sleep and a nice long shower, as they stand next to each other in the kitchen staring absently at the bubbling coffee maker, it occurs to Ryan again.

“What was that call about anyways?”

Jeremy shrugs, pokes at one of the buttons in hopes that it’ll somehow make the coffee go faster.

“Gavin calling. Geoff thinks it might be time to do a nice big heist again. One of his friends from his old crew does….something in the city. Information I think? But he has a few things he likes to keep an eye on and so apparently there’s a big shipment of old-fashioned gold bars coming through town in a few days, armored truck and everything. So of course Gav’s all excited. Sounds like fun though right? Any interest?”

Ryan hums, smiles as the machine finally dings. He thinks while Jeremy tracks down their mugs, watches him, thinks about all the power the younger man holds, thinks about the soft way he wields it. Thinks about how his own bones ache for the giddy shake that fire and screams gives him. It doesn’t bring guilt, doesn’t even take another thought. He takes his mug from Jeremy, pays for it with a kiss that’s slow and sweet. 

“Yeah, why not? It sounds like a blast.”

Jeremy smiles at him, sleepy and unimaginable.

“I’ll do my best to make it that way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I know right? I just really wanted to write this and I couldn't focus on anything else until it did. My work on other things suffered in the name of this only vaguely plotty fluff.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does the fact that this is over 5k words and contains a heist make up for how late it is?

Once they're both caffeinated and Jeremy manages to make something food-adjacent from what remains of Ryan’s mediocre groceries, complaining the whole time that they need to go food shopping, Jeremy goes to rescue their phones from wherever they've wound up while Ryan rinses everything down. He's already texting away as he wanders back in, handing Ryan’s phone back with a smile. 

“Gav says it doesn't seem like there's much planning they need us for. We can probably go there tomorrow and get updated.”

Ryan glances at his phone, notices he has a message from that number. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jeremy smiling playfully, connects the dots. He clears the notification, sets his phone on the counter, smiling right back.

“Tomorrow huh?”

“Yep.” 

Jeremy’s phone is set beside his, hand now changing track to trace up his arm. Ryan laughs as he gets a firm grip on him, drags him back to the bedroom. 

Much later that night Jeremy goes out while he lays mostly insensate in bed, returns with painkillers and new bandages and some nameless form of takeout that seems far more expensive than anything Ryan’s ever bought with his own money for food. The pain from the drunken tattooing is nothing compared to some of the other pains he's put up with these last few months but he lets Jeremy take care of him anyways, popping a few of the pills inbetween bites of what appears to be some kind of chicken. He watches, amused, as Jeremy admires his own handiwork, changing out the old packing and pressing a kiss as close as he can to the ink. Ryan kicks him lightly, makes him laugh. The food gets abandoned momentarily in favor of some playful wrestling that it feels like he should have won, Jeremy pinning his wrists thoroughly to the mattress. 

The next morning he showers while the younger cleans up the general mess they've made in the last few days, rubbing the vague hint of bruises that are beginning to show on the joints. He hears talking over the spray, though he can't make out the words until he shuts it off and steps out, Jeremy pacing absently in his living room while he talks on the phone. When he sees Ryan he slips it into his pocket, smiles at him.

“Hey, think we can get coffee on the way?”

“I don't see why not.” 

He feels Jeremy’s eyes on him as he turns and heads back to the bedroom, drying off his hair with his towel. He smiles at the sound of footsteps behind him, the quiet grumbling about how he's getting water on the floor.

Jeremy doesn’t interfere too much while he dresses, though he does insist that his various touches are ‘just checking the packing’, smiling all the while. When Ryan finally bats him away he flops on the bed, complaining playfully about him not caring about his own skin. Ryan manages to track down pants and a shirt, kisses the younger to shut him up. He feels a little sore but it’s far from the worst thing ever. When he pulls away, Jeremy hums in annoyance, trying to keep him trapped through will and strength alone. He laughs, extricating himself with ease.

“I need to go put on my face Jer, whether you want to go or not.”

His words seem to perk Jeremy’s interest, as he can hear the padding of footsteps behind him as he makes his way back to the bathroom. In the warm light of the overhead, Jeremy hops up beside him on the counter, smiling down at him.

“Let me watch? Wanna see you get all scary.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, pulls out his paints, the bottle of sealant, earning a warm smile as Jeremy recognizes it. He props his elbow against the counter aside his thigh, focuses on his work. It’s quiet then, the two of them side by side as he carefully hides the softer curves of his face behind white and red and black. Jeremy watches with something akin to fascinated worship, his fingers twitching against his leg like he wants to touch, but knows far better than to follow through. Instead his hands track to Ryan’s shoulder, rubbing the long-healed scar tissue there, dotted with the remnants of playful bites, massaging away any aches or pains within. It proves a heavy distraction, though he still manages to get everything done and sealed properly before he turns his attention to the cause of it. Jeremy smiles at him, playful and warm, trails his hand up to the scar along his cheek.

“You still look scary, y’know? Even though I know you’re this total dork who has plants with names and gets up like stupid early in the morning and has a weird old mask tattoo, you still look scary with all that on. I get why people have all these crazy stories about you. You hear the one about the hole?”

Ryan hums, smiles with teeth.

“How are you sure it’s not true?”

Jeremy laughs without hesitation, shaking his head, gorgeous in the artificial light.

“Listen, you’re scary but you’re not that scary. Besides, you aren’t nearly patient enough for that. I think half the reason you’re so clean is because you let your scary stories do the talking for you. You’re scary and that’s hot as fuck, don’t get me wrong, but you’re not scary in that way.”

That old nauseous chill settles against his spine, whispers of snakeskin lies and iron chains. He buries it with thoughts of blood and flesh, huffs and tucks his nose under Jeremy’s jaw.

“You’re making me feel like I need to go on a killing spree. Prove myself or something.”

The younger wraps his legs around Ryan, trails his hands into his hair.

“I can think of a few ways you can prove yourself to me right now.”

Ryan huffs a laugh into his throat, aims to discover just how effective that sealant is. Afterwards Jeremy still insists on coffee as they get to his Adder, grinning proudly as Ryan zips up his jacket a little more to hide all the marks their time alone has brought, his hairtie held momentarily in his teeth. Ryan rolls his eyes, picking up the stupid Stetson off the passenger seat as he slides in, shoving it in Jeremy’s face.

“Let’s be quick about this cowboy.”

Jeremy insists on going inside the little cafe to get coffee, some horrifying concoction of sugar and cream, but at the very least he drops a few hundreds into the tip jar for the fact that he insists Ryan, masked and terrifying, comes inside with him. By the time they’re back in the car Ryan has a thought, his gloved hands wrapped around his iced coffee, fighting the heat outside.

“My tattoo isn’t weird.”

Jeremy nearly crashes from how hard he’s laughing.

He’s still laughing as they finish their coffees, make their way up to the penthouse. Inside, Ryan slips the mask off, long since given up on that particular sense of safety, follows Jeremy as he leads him through the penthouse to one of the rooms he hasn't been in yet, the door open and revealing a large round table dotted with maps and phones and eclectic things, two others seated at it with Ramsey standing at the head, his back to them, dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt. He's talking.

“-el says the thing’s still on course and we all know how anal he is about shit like this. Soon as Jack gets back we can start prepping to leave. We isolate it and ram it off the road just as planned but depending on the route it takes it might go on the freeway, in which case we’ll need someone on the ground going with us under the ramp just in case.”

The Brit reaches out, nudges Michael out of his apparent doze, waiting until Michael’s deep browns turn to him to start moving his hands fully, quickly enough so that it takes Ryan a second to even recognize what he’s doing. Michael grunts a weak affirmative, returns his head to his arm pillow with a quiet sound of distress. It’s the quietest Ryan’s ever seen him. The Brit smiles softly, reaches over to ruffle his curls. Michael doesn’t even bother to bat at his hand. 

“We can do it if Michael’s headache clears up. If not me and Lil J can do it.”

Ramsey nods absently, focused on the large map pinned to the wall.

“Alright, we should probably plan for not just in case. Shouldn’t be too hard. Probably only need two cars, a person in each. Two if we want the backup. I can drive one of mine, Vagabond can probably drive with Jack. He’ll be the one doing the ramming anyways, and rampant destruction seems like something the dude is into.”

Jeremy sniggers a little from where they stand in the doorway, draws the attention of two of the sets of eyes in the room. He bumps his hip against Ryan’s, walks to plant himself in the chair on the opposite side of Michael, not even questioning the huddled mass he currently appears to be. Ryan shrugs, leans against the doorframe. It feels wrong to step inside, somewhere deep inside him.

“Not denying that.”

Ramsey nods, a more relaxed twist to his smile than what might have been there months ago. It makes something squirm happily in his chest. 

“Well, Jack’s out getting his fancy-ass new car so you’ll get to enjoy plenty destruction once he’s got it. And with you guys here we can actually get prepped before he gets back. Awesome. Assuming you caught enough of the last bit of planning to get the gist? It’s nothing too detailed this time.”

Both he and Jeremy nod in the affirmative. 

“Fantastic. C’mon, let’s find you some big and scary guns.”

He circles the table, hesitates for only a split second before brushing past Ryan down the hall. Ryan appreciates the confidence, follows after him with ease. Out of the corner of his eye as he turns into a room with Ramsey he sees Michael with Jeremy and the Brit trailing close behind, headed in the other direction. 

It’s a good hour before Jack returns, most of which Ryan spends with Ramsey, admiring his frankly extensively over-the-top collection of lethal weaponry and occasionally tossing a piece or two into one of the duffel bags previously hung on the wall. He frankly feels a little robbed that he’s never seen this room, lifting a painted eyebrow at the horrible shade of pink that many of the guns are. Ramsey shrugs, grinning. He likes it.

Doesn’t stop him from being a little offended when Ryan compares it to Jeremy’s tastes in garish colors. When he points out that he’s not colorblind, Ryan retorts that that isn’t necessarily a point in his favor. Jeremy, choosing that time to join them, jokes that at least he knows the colors are terrible. Ramsey turns a very impressive shade of red, grumbles about employees ganging up on him, though Ryan will readily admit that at that point he’s distracted by the sight of the very pretty assault shotgun propped on a table in the corner. He trails his way over to it, peeling off his gloves to properly feel the cold metal, Jeremy following behind with a knowing grin. They stand together, shoulder to shoulder as Ryan lifts the weapon, admires the speed it very clearly holds. Jeremy’s voice rumbles into his ears with stories about the gun, exploded ribcages and bloody things that make Ryan’s heart skip in twisted delight, humming in response. 

Ramsey rolls his eyes, huffs something about how the two of them are terrible and gross and what the actual fuck honestly. Ryan sees Jeremy flip him off out of the corner of his eye, sees Ramsey return the favor before leaving, dragging one of the bags with him. With a warm grin, Jeremy bumps their hips again.

“I’m starting to think a good date idea would be taking you to Ammu-Nation and buying you guns. You’re so cheap. The guns you have suck.”

Ryan opens his mouth to retort that his guns aren’t _that_ bad, which is a blatant lie but he has some degree of personal integrity, when he registers the whole of the statement. 

Date. Jeremy called it a date, and on top of that he said it with such casualness that Ryan doesn’t even think he realized it. A grin creeps onto his face, past anything he can even think to understand on his chest. 

“I’d take full advantage of you paying.”

“Like you don’t already. I’m still amazed you don’t live in a hotel.”

“You can track hotels.”

“Paranoid.”

“Arrogant.”

They’re both smiling at each other now, a little happy that there’s no one else in the room. With a little huff Ryan slings the shotgun over his shoulder, goes to pick up the remaining bag, trying to force the grin off his face. Jeremy leans against the table, watches him.

“Maybe some nicer jeans while we’re at it…”

They banter a little more as they finally leave the room, walk back down the hall towards the living room. Jack’s there, chatting with Ramsey. He waves amicably at Ryan when they appear, giving him a clear view of the gloves he’s wearing, open at the tips and some form of tight cotton-weave. He splits apart from Ramsey to come over, completely confident as he moves within space of Ryan. 

“You and me in a car again huh? Sounds like an adventure.”

Ryan flashes him a grin with far too many teeth.

“Hoping it will be.”

Jack smiles back and there’s something there Ryan honestly hasn’t seen before, that same kind of bloodthirstiness he’s seen in Jeremy’s eyes when they’re out and about. Who knew that it would be cars that would bring it out of him? 

The few of them chat until the Brit reappears, Ryan hanging to the back for most of the conversation. He listens, watching, learning their planning as he goes, though he can’t really say why. Finally though, the Brit steps down the hall, easy and calm. He’s not followed. 

“Lil J’s gonna need to spend some time with me today looks like!”

Jeremy shrugs, matches his grin.

“Sounds good to me.”

Ramsey nods, watches as Ryan slips the mask back on, hefts one of the bags onto his better shoulder. He seems more nervous when he can’t see his face.

Jack grabs the other bag, slings it over his shoulder in a mix of power and caution. The rest of them all talk as they walk to the elevator, head down to the garage.

Ryan notes absently that no one locks the door as they go. He wonders if there even is a lock. 

In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the concrete basement, it’s easy to guess which car everyone is going to. Ramsey takes the bag from Jack, hands off a few pieces out of it to Jeremy and the Brit before making his way over to a bright pink Elegy. The two of them check the guns they’ve been given, sling them into holsters or over backs as they walk to a trio of bikes in the corner, one bright silver, one soft gold, and one a horrifying patterned mix of purple and orange. 

He hates that he finds himself smiling as Jeremy settles down on that one. 

They leave the silver one be. 

Jack leads him over to a car he hasn’t seen before, smiling broadly as he takes in the beast of a vehicle. It looks like a Kuruma, which is ridiculous because it’s a fucking _sedan_ , albeit a pretty nice one. This one screams power, on top of the matte black paint, the armored windows. He opens the door, looks inside and can’t help but huff, amused, at the fact that yep, inside it’s still a fucking sedan, though with a pretty nice roll cage surrounding it. He unzips the bag, sets it in the backseat where they can both reach into it, unslings the shotgun as he settles into the passenger seat. 

The whole beast vibrates when Jack slides in, turns the engine over. It makes his teeth rattle in the best way, arm braced against the windowsill. Jack’s face holds that fantastically dangerous grin, watching first the bikes, then the pink Elegy, one after the other up the ramp and out of the garage, then shifting the whole thing into gear and careening out onto the streets. They clip a car as they turn, barely even shifting inside as the other vehicle loses control, crashes into the street. 

It takes Ryan a minute to realize that he’s laughing. 

It takes even less time to realize that Jack is laughing too. 

They make a game of it as they go, keeping up more than easily with the bikes and the Elegy, Jeremy and Jack having a playful time flipping each other off and Ramsey making it a little bit of a race. Ryan’s heart feels like it’s soaring, smiling broadly behind the mask and feeling, really and truly, like one of the crew. He watches through the armored windows as the Brit swerves onto the sidewalk, forcing people to jump out of the way as he gains the head advantage over Jeremy, both of them jockeying for first as they split off, heading in their own direction as Ramsey pulls further forward, surveying for the truck as they hold back, waiting for a signal. 

A signal, Ryan realizes, that he has no idea how they’re going to get. He looks to Jack, mouth ready to form the words, but the driver seems to know before he even says anything, tapping a gloved hand onto the radio in the dashboard. 

“The lads have mics in their helmets, and all of our cars have a frequency we interact with each other on. It’ll come on when he sees it, no worries.”

“Mmm.”

They slip into a comfortable silence, Jack weaving expertly amongst the other cars as they slip onto the freeway, still going fast enough to make his heart beat. Something is still bothering him though. 

“Why change the plan just for a headache?”

Jack, to his credit, doesn’t even glance his way. 

“You mean about Michael? Headache is calling it a little short, but it’s easier to just say that when usually everyone gets it.”

The driver falls silent for a second, thinking.

“Told you about the boxing, right?”

Ryan hums the affirmative, watches as Jack stretches his hands in the gloves. He remembers him talking about it.

“I did it for years, young and stupid. We all did shit like that when we were kids, when we all thought we were immortal. Left me with my hands the way they are. They probably would have been less if I ever took care of myself back then, or if I’d gotten out before I met Geoff, but it paid a lot better than driving or flying did back then. For me though, I can get away on days like today with just gloves and some painkillers. It sucks, don’t get me wrong, and I’ll need to deal with that later, but I can handle it.”

He sighs.

“Michael didn’t wear ear protection when he was younger. It feels stupid to say shit like that with a kid like Michael but it’s true. He blew the shit out of his ears more times that I think even he can remember, not to mention all the times he knocked himself senseless by being too close to a blast. That kind of shit does long-term damage, and he’s dealing with it now, he always will. Those headaches? I can’t even imagine what they’re like, but I understand it.”

They’re both silent for a second, thinking. Then Jack flashes him a soft smile.

“We can’t all be invincible, Vagabond. We’re all fucked up in some way or another and I hate to say it because we all like having you around despite what it might seem like, but if you stick with us you’re probably going to get a little fucked up too, more so than what these last few months have done. But we take care of our own, and that more than I can say for a lot of crews out there, and we’ll take care of you too.”

Despite himself, Ryan feels that unnameable burst of warmth. Beneath the mask, he smiles back.

“I appreciate that.”

Jack laughs.

“That’s all we can ask for.”

The silence returns then, relaxed and even, until finally the radio crackles to life, Jack reaching over to tune it just the finest bit more.

“Found the truck. Big fucker, a lot bigger than I thought it was going to be but shouldn’t be an issue for that fancy ass thing you’ve got. Lads?”

Another crackle, then the Brit.

“Ready! Please don’t drop the bloody thing on our heads too hard, yeah?”

Ryan snorts at the same time as Jack, both of them grinning. The driver reaches over, holds down a button on the dash.

“We’ll do our best. Coming in.”

The hand falls to the gearshift and Ryan feels the car suddenly lurch in speed, pressing him against his seat as they suddenly become the next best thing to a battering ram, shunting the cars they can’t quite swerve around with ease. He sees the flash of pink first, points. 

“There!”

Jack closes in, the pink coalescing into the Elegy, trailing behind a heavily armored transport truck, the symbol for one of the big banks stamped on the side. Ramsey’s car moves, speeds up and cuts in front of the truck, keeping it cornered as Jack shifts gears again, gaining traction as the Kuruma suddenly swerves, slams into the truck’s rear wheel, before pulling back and prepping for another go.

Ryan realizes he’s laughing again, pressed back in his seat, one arm braced against the window and the other clutching the shotgun, Jack shouting with exhilaration as they ram into the truck again and again, Ramsey’s Elegy keeping the beast from speeding up too much as their momentum increases, the truck swerving more and more with every hit. Each rebound shock of the armored speed demon rattles his skull, makes the adrenaline roar through his veins, shouting just the same as Jack as the truck finally loses control, spins out and slams up against the barrier, its massive weight working against it as it tilts, tips, and finally disappears over the edge of the overpass, taking a good portion of the railing with it. 

Over the radio they can hear shouts, words that turn into hoots of glee, the resounding crash of the vehicle heard even through the helmets. 

Ramsey swerves across lanes to the nearest exit, their car following close behind. By the time they get to the crumpled remains of the truck the younger two have already blasted the doors, hefting out bricks of gold onto the concrete beneath. 

Ryan can already hear the sirens. Ramsey jumps out of his car, fixing an earpiece in and already shouting orders, his .50 caliber already in one hand, empty bags in another as he directs Jack to block the entrance with his car, moving to help the lads with their haul. Jack tosses Ryan another earpiece as he hops out, braces himself against the protected side of the vehicle and waits for the flashing lights. 

It’s a little beautiful, he thinks, how the first car swerves with the appropriate placement of the pellets of a shotgun shell into its windshield, crashing into a pillar and starting to smoke. He can see the slumped forms inside. The next manages to keep down, park not far from the crashed one as the cops scramble out. 

One blast catches one in the chest, the next skims the metal just by the second’s head.

“Hey Vagabond!”

He ducks down to avoid the cop’s fire, looks back in the Kuruma. Jack looks perfectly unperturbed, grinning at him as bullets pepper the side of the car inches from him. He’s holding a grenade out to him. 

“Wanna show us how good your throwing arm is?” 

The firing dies down. He takes the grenade, scours his memory of the police academy for instructions on how to toss flashbangs. Not too different, yeah? 

Squeeze, pull, breathe, toss.

The car _detonates_ , sending chunks of cop everywhere and taking out the smoking car next to it as well. He shouts, pumps his fist. 

Distantly he wonders, who would think learning to be a cop would help him be a better criminal? 

Jack laughs inside the car, tosses him another one as another set of cars charge down the path towards them.

Shoot, rinse, repeat. 

A body crams up against the car next to him, seconds or minutes later. He glances over, sees the grinning face of Jeremy. He has to shout over the chaos, even with the earpieces glinting in both their ears.

“Didn’t I say this would be a blast?!”

He just laughs, reaching into the car to get more ammo out of the bag. He finds another shotgun, hands it to his other. They fight as Ramsey and the Brit drag the loaded bags of gold into the Elegy, completely decimating the cops who come. By the time all the bags are moved, there’s little more than the charred remains of numerous vehicles left. 

Oh, and the sound of the helicopter waiting above.

A helicopter, which usually means snipers.

And they have two people prepping to get back on bikes. 

Thankfully, he’s not the only person thinking this. Ramsey looks around at them, up to the overpass. The cops are waiting for them, that much is clear. Thankfully, this also means that they aren’t sending any more cars to get blown up and slaughtered, which means that the shooting has died down considerably. Finally he focuses on them.

“Okay, so, plan. You guys stick to as many shadows beneath the underpass as you can, head down that way under here until you can’t anymore. We’ll make a distraction for you. Vagabond, c’mere. You’re gonna need to drive with me if you want to play with some of those big and scary guns.” 

He thinks he knows what Ramsey means, grinning behind his mask as he takes one last clip of ammo from Jack, walks over to the Elegy. Ramsey nods to the two younger as they get back on their bikes, slides into his seat as Ryan drags the rocket launcher from where it’s sticking halfway out of the bag Ramsey has. 

This he can do, his mind filling with nothing but the thought of that first time he held one, those emotions both so similar and so different now. 

Funny, how a little murder in the first degree can change a person. 

It feels so similar too, as they power back out into the open, Jack first, the two of them second, in Ramsey’s ugly pink Elegy. It’s like deja vu, as the first few bullets ping off the hood and Ryan leans out the window, held in the car by nothing but Ramsey’s strong grip on his jacket, taking aim at the chasing copter before he blows it out of the sky. He watches in wonder as it crashes down onto the pavement of the interstate before finally hauling himself back into the car. He thinks Ramsey might hesitate for a second before letting go of him.

They split from Jack, find their way into a shadowy alley, out and up into the abandoned apartments next door, finding one with enough space and a view onto the street. Ryan settles on the floor by the door, Ramsey by the mostly-shuttered window, watching as they wait for things to die down. Time passes, Ryan grows bored, the adrenaline scratching at his veins like knives on stone, scraping, itching. He takes the knife from its holster, the black-handled beast that the man across the room from him gave him, a present for his efforts. 

The other one is in what has become his room at the penthouse. It still makes Jeremy laugh. 

He looks up to see Ramsey watching him, eyes sharper than he’s ever seen, that shrewd knowing look of a man who has made the city his own. If not for the comfortable outfit in place of his signature tux, he would have no issue understanding this man as the king of Los Santos. Even now, he thinks he gets it. What led Ramsey to his place above all others. He also thinks about what Ramsey is no doubt thinking at this moment, with that look. 

He’s alone with the Vagabond, a man with a reputation for killing those he works for. And for a second, Ryan thinks about it. 

No, that isn’t right, Ryan doesn’t. James does. The goody-two-shoes cop morality that started him on this whole adventure squirms out of wherever the fuck he was hiding, spouts on and on about how good it would be, how he could end it here, go back to everything. With Ramsey dead or arrested, the Fakes would crumble like ash.

It could all be over, just like that. The cops are looking outside, hauling him out or putting a knife through his gut, even knowing how to fight Ramsey would be no match for him. He would win, be the hero.

But at the same time, where would be the fun in that?

He sheathes the knife, gets up and stretches, pulls off his mask to rub at his face. Ramsey gives him that look for a second more before it fades, giving way into a crooked grin. He watches as Ryan pulls his hairtie out, fixes his hair with the band in his teeth before replacing it, coming to join the older man at the window.

“How goes it boss? Look like it’s dying down?”

The kingpin only stares at him a second more before turning his attention back to the window. 

“Yeah, we should be able to head back out soon. And you know you can call me Geoff, right Vagabond? You’re one of us, might as well.”

He hums, eyes Ramsey, how the light from the shutters catches him, makes him look sharp and soft, all at once. 

“Geoff. We’ll see.”

Ramsey, Geoff, snorts.

“You’re a fucking weird dude.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The snort shifts into a laugh, Geoff shaking his head as he watches the street. Soon enough, the sirens fade into nothing and he shoves off the wall, slaps Ryan on the shoulder. 

“C’mon, let’s get back. That gold probably isn’t doing my car any favors.”

“Can’t be any worse than the paintjob.”

A punch this time, carefully on his good shoulder. He holds up his hands in mock-surrender, gestures towards the door.

“Lead on boss.”

Geoff shakes his head, heads back towards his car. Ryan, still grinning even as he fits his mask back on, follows obediently behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously you guys, I was stuck so hard on this chapter. I'm super proud of it but I wanna highkey die at the same time. I'm really hoping you guys like it as much as I do.


	20. Chapter 20

They get back to the penthouse almost suspiciously easy for a driving a bright pink car loaded with gold that was probably on every news channel less than an hour ago, but Ryan can’t say he’s too surprised. Part of the reason why he’s here after all is that no one seems to be able to catch the Fakes. 

Irony is a cruel bitch sometimes. 

Jack and Jeremy are sitting on cars in the garage when they drive in, grinning broadly as they park. Jeremy’s muscles tense for a second as Ryan gets out of the car, pulling the mask off as he goes, and for a second he’s dead certain that he’s about to get jumped, but then the other relaxes with a look in his eye, instead giving his arm a light squeeze as he brushes past to retrieve the assemblage of bags. 

Ryan isn’t really sure how he feels about that. 

Instead of thinking he sets the mask atop the car, moves to assist the rest of them as they pull the bags out, pile them in the corner of the garage. They’re too heavy to do much else with. Geoff stands back, crossing his arms as he looks at the lopsided pile. He’s clearly thinking and they leave their leader to it, making sure all the guns are back in the bags to be brought back upstairs. He grins at them when they turn their attention back to him, texting away. 

“Think Gav’ll want to look at them and probably grab one or two for his own shit but I think we might have a buyer already for the rest. From out of town for once too. Guess there’s some interest in boosting prices elsewhere.”

Sometimes Ryan forgets how mundane crime can be. It feels in distinct contrast to the mayhem he quite literally just caused a little while ago. Ah well, nothing he really needs to worry about he figures. He glances at Jeremy, tilts his head toward the elevator. The other nods, waits for him to retrieve the mask before walking with him, both of them quiet as the adrenaline finally starts to wear off. Jack stays below, waiting on Geoff to finish whatever it is he’s doing. 

It’s dark upstairs, thick curtains covering every inch of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the only light from the hallway light, left very dim, and the various appliances casting their hazy green glow. 

There’s a remote on the counter, presumably for the curtains, beside a stack of sandwiches, toasted and warm. 

There’s no sign of anyone else, everything quiet and calm. The two of them make their way back to the armory room, abandon the bags to be sorted later. He pauses, thinking for a second about going back to his apartment, before deciding that the way this adrenaline-drop is going he’s not going to be functional enough to do so pretty quick here. Has he ever been this tired after a heist? 

He stops, thinks about it. The first one he nearly bled out during and the second one was a little one. And he was up the whole night and fell asleep against his car after that one. Maybe he needs a bigger sample size. Jeremy bumps his hip, brings him out of his thoughts with a smile. 

“Shower and nap?”

Fuck that sounds amazing. Jeremy huffs a laugh when he says as much. 

“You shower first. I’d love to join you but I’m gonna go check on Michael and Gav first, find some clean clothes for the both of us.”

Ryan can’t find any fault with that argument. Part of his brain wonders how he never even questioned where the Brit was, but that’s pretty quickly shunted aside in favor of the thought of perfectly temperatured water. He’s only used it a few times, but goddamn it’s amazing. He stops to drop his jacket in the room that has become his own, set the mask on the dresser, take off the holsters for his knife and gun while he’s at it. 

One of these days he should really thank Geoff for his presents. 

The heat of the water soaks into his bones, takes the strain from his muscles. The patter lulls his mind, quiets the adrenaline-exhaustion mix of his mind. At one point the door opens, the faintest hint of a conversation slipping through the door before it shuts again. He thinks he hears the Brit’s quiet lilt, Jeremy’s low response. For a second he thinks he hears something like ‘micoo’ tossed in there somewhere, though his tired brain can’t quit process it into a functional word. Probably nothing important. 

Jeremy’s left him a shirt and sleep pants, only the latter of which actually his and the former a gaudy flowery mash of colors, as well as some makeup remover, some stuff to repack the area over the tattoo. He smiles at the thought, though he refuses to put the shirt on. 

Thankfully the hallway is empty again as he makes his way back to his room. Jeremy’s there, playing with the ridiculous gold-handled blade. He looks up as he enters, grins at the sight of him shirtless even as he tosses the gaudy shirt into his face. 

“One of yours?”

“Nah, Jack’s. My turn to shower, move it.”

That stacks. He moves out of the doorway, collapses into the bed, ever amazed by how comfortable it is. He’s nearly asleep when he hears Jeremy return, curl up warm and gentle against his back. 

They’re both asleep within minutes.

They somehow, impossibly, strangely, manage to sleep through the rest of the day, sleep well into the night. When Ryan awakes, it’s not from sound, it’s not from the light of morning through the half-open curtain. No, it’s still dark, still quiet. He wakes up because Jeremy is awake, sitting on the bed next to him, clearly thinking. His hands are fidgeting, tempted to tangle in the ever-lengthening hair so close in reach, but too distracted to do anything other than glance between the darkness of the room, the window, and him. 

The clock says 2:36 AM. 

“...Jer?”

Jeremy looks down to him again, smiles a little awkwardly. Absently, Ryan realizes that he’s sort of trapped Jeremy, laying a little on his legs. He doesn’t make the effort to move. 

“Hey Ry.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

“Nah, slept plenty. Just...thinking. I...I dunno. You might hate it.”

Maybe it’s the addled nature of his brain at this exact moment, but he can’t say he understands. In these quiet seconds of the night he feels less like the monster he’s increasingly aware of becoming, more like someone a boat, drawn inexorably towards the warmth of the light on the horizon. The idea of hating anything about Jeremy is incomprehensible.

“Hate what?”

Jeremy breathes out heavily through his nose, shakes his head. With a little effort he manages to push Ryan off his legs, slide off the bed. For a minute he leaves him there, waiting for his return. 

When he returns, his arms are clutched carefully behind his back, a nervous smile on his face. He waits for Ryan to sit up to reveal what he’s holding. 

It’s a cactus, tiny, the pot barely as big as his palm, with a ring of gentle pink flowers around its top like a crown. Jeremy shrugs awkwardly, embarrassed, his calloused hands clutching the ceramic like it’s something beyond fragile.

“Y’know when you were in the shower at the apartment yesterday? This guy swung by the apartment, sorta lanky, long hair? He said he was gonna be out of town for the next week or so and he wanted to ‘check on you and wish you a happy early birthday’. He didn’t mention when it was exactly and I don’t even know if it’s really your birthday or if it’s a lie or whatever because he seemed to think your name was something else too but um...I wanted to get you something? And I sorta panicked and called the others and they insisted on chipping in? So um...when Jack was out picking up his car yesterday he went out and got this and uh, a lot of like fancy plant shit that the others picked out? And you can like...you can take it back to the apartment if you want but I figured...I dunno I figured you could keep it here instead? Let all of us take care of it? I promise I won’t let Gav accidentally kill it by overfeeding it or something. If you like it. It’s okay if you don’t, I just thought because of those plants you have at your place you might like it? I dunno.”

Ryan realizes after a few seconds of Jeremy’s rambling that he can feel tears coming on, his brain processing the sheer amount of care he’s being shown ever so slowly. He steps forward, cups Jeremy’s face to quiet him, kisses him slow and gentle and trembling, doing his best not to crush the tiny plant. He smiles at the other, nuzzles him, takes the plant from his hold. 

“I’d love to keep it here, and yes my birthday is really in a few days. Thank you.”

Jeremy smiles back at him, the slightest blush cresting his cheeks. 

“I’m glad. Now c’mon, before anyone else wakes up and realizes you’re a huge softie, let’s go back to bed. We can figure out something to do in the morning.”

The monsters sleep yet again. 

Or rather, most of them do. 

Ryan wakes up in the morning with the bed still warm, chatter loud enough that he can hear it through the closed door. He slips on one of his own spare shirts, grabs his jacket off the chair, a stack of paints from where they rest crookedly on the corner of the dresser. The hallway is empty as he slips his way to the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror. 

He’s smiling. He didn’t even realize. 

For a fraction of a second he thinks he could stay like this, forever, if he really wanted to. Then he feels that weight, that dark reminder clinging to the back of his skull like an unwanted passenger. Nothing is forever. He shakes it off, turns his attention to his paints. Better look the part if they’re planning mischief.

Shit, he’s out of red.

Well, time to experiment.

The talking dies down as he makes his way to the kitchen, finding Jeremy and Michael, the former sitting at the island while the latter works on something that smells really fucking good on the stove. They’re both staring at him. Ryan wonders for a second if any of the marks Jeremy left on him in the last few days are visible with this shirt, tight-necked as it is with his jacket slung over his arm, but then Michael speaks, squinting at him through thick lenses that catch the morning light.

“Holy fuck Vagabond, that’s scary as shit.”

Oh, the makeup. He glances at his hazy reflection in the sheen of the fridge, the sharp curves of white and black. He wasn’t sure about it, having to be a little economical with the colors he still had, and taking some ideas from the last time he ran out of red, grand portions of his cheeks still visible, but he feels a little better about it with the reaction.

“Yeah? Cool.”

The redhead snorts, shakes his head, returns to his project.

“And you ruined it. Sit down fucker, you need to eat something just as much as Lil J does.”

He can feel the eyebrow lifting before he can stop it, looking to Jeremy who just shrugs in response, unabashedly enjoying the way Ryan’s arms look in the tight black of the shirt while Michael’s back is turned. He points over his shoulder towards the living room, smiles as he sits down next to him. 

“Cactus is out there. I’m thinking we should name it.”

Michael glances at the two of them as he shakes the pan, filling the air with the distinctive snap-sizzle of cooking meat. 

“Why the fuck should we name it? It’s a plant.”

“Because it’s like a pet dumbass. Geoff won’t let us keep anything here so I think we should name it.”

An ankle playfully bumps against Ryan’s. 

“What’d’you think V?”

His turn to shrug, a little bemused by the nickname. Michael plates the food, fluffy eggs and perfectly crispy bacon, drops the plates in front of them and another for good measure across from theirs. He takes a bite of food, talks around it, his curls bouncing slightly with the movement.

“It’s gotta be something stupid if you’re gonna insist on naming it….Hey what’s that thing with the story about the hole Vagabond? Edgar? Maybe we should name it that.”

Ryan fixes him with a look, swallows his bite of eggs. 

“I _will_ stab you if you call it that.”

Michael grins, all punch-crooked teeth and firebrand smarts.

“No you won’t.”

They talk as they eat, topic wandering between subjects with impressive ease. It’s circled around to plans for the day as they finish the last of the food on their plates. Michael, having missed the heist, wants to at least go out and wander around, antsy in his own skin. He’s not even overly interested in anything too crime-focused, mostly just interested in moving around and seeing the sun proper. Jeremy offers to come wander with him before immediately turning his grin on Ryan, clearly expecting him to come along. After a second Michael joins in. 

He lets them sweat it for a second before sighing dramatically with a roll of his eyes. Good thing he doesn’t have any sealant here.

“Apartment first.”

The two grins he gets are decisively shark-like, even if they don’t mean to be. Michael finishes eating, cleans his plate, tells them he’ll leave soon and tell them where to meet up with him before wandering back down the hall, leaving them in peace. 

Or as peace as it can be when Jeremy finishes eating first and instead decides to see how much he can mess up the now-unneeded facepaint before they leave. Ryan glares at him a few times but apparently it’s not intimidating enough with a mouthful of bacon. When he finishes Jeremy grabs both their plates and quickly washes them, more interested in getting moving than doing a good job. 

He talks as they drive, not really focused on one thing or another, completely rejuvenated from their long time asleep. 

Sometimes, when he illustrates a point, their hands brush. It makes jolts of warmth shoot up Ryan’s arm, curl comfortably around his spine. He finds himself smiling as he watches the other talk.

When they get to the apartment, despite Jeremy’s best efforts, the paint is still mostly intact, only smudged in a handful of places. It’s still good enough that Ryan takes a photo under the fluorescent bathroom lights, careful to capture it as much as possible. It’s tempting to use it again someday, now that it’s starting to come into its own. Jeremy smiles when he reappears, clothes unchanged aside from his abandoned jacket, the rave mask already up over his nose, sunglasses hanging a little out of his shirt as he struggles to put his hair up properly, hairtie tangled in his thick fingers.

Next time they spend time with the Poppies, he needs help. He’s man enough to admit it at this point. 

When he finally succeeds his other pulls him down by the neck of his shirt, kisses him over the seamless cloth, right on the skeletal jaw printed on it. He’s laughing a little bit, good-naturedly of course.

“God you’re such a fucking dork. Who ever thought you were scary. I sure didn’t.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah. C’mon, Michael texted, he wants to go wander around the Promenade for awhile.”

Ryan snorts, readjusts his mask.

“And I’m the one who’s not scary?”

Jeremy shrugs, unabashed, leads him back out. Ryan wonders if it's really worth the effort to be low-profile when Jeremy’s car is still what it is, though he’ll admit that with a beanie and a sweatshirt on, Jeremy looks like any other guy. Sorta funny all things considered.

Thinking about it, he is pretty sure that sweatshirt is his.

They find Michael at the top of the hill of the Promenade, dressed in yet another too-big too-old band shirt and jeans, thick glasses still set on his nose. His curls are a little more wild than usual, windblown maybe, and when he reaches up a hand to mess with them, Ryan can see the thin wire of his hearing aids. He waves as they approach, Jeremy ribbing him as they come near.

“No contacts today?”

“Head’s still a little fucky from yesterday, glasses are better.”

Jeremy’s smile falters a little at that, leaning back on his heels. He fixes Michael with an appraising look, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“You sure you’re good?”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ antsy as shit. Both Geoff and Jack made sure I’ve got water and painkillers, I’ll survive. Let’s just hang out okay? See what shit we can get up to.”

His gaze flicks to Ryan rather than continue the conversation.

“You look like you’re hungover in that getup by the way.”

Ryan lifts an eyebrow, knows the look transfers with even only half his face visible.

“Can still stab you.”

The grin Michael gives him back is blinding.

“Not in public, unless you want to ruin the day. And before you can find a solution to that, c’mon let’s go get some coffee, I could fucking kill for caffeine right now.”

They get coffee, or rather the younger two do, Michael clutching his latte like a lifeline as they wander around, maybe being a little more obnoxious than the upscale patronage of the Promenade would appreciate, but having a surprising amount of fun either way. They stick their noses in a few stores, debate restaurants, just spend a few hours on their feet and moving without actually getting shot at. Jeremy insists they go in one of the more impressive looking stores and each buy something overpriced and ridiculous. Which is how they all wind up in Didier Sachs, Michael grinning broadly as he tries on a sweater that would look more in-place on a TV grandfather, being assured that it’s made of the finest form of baby goat wool available. Jeremy’s somewhere else in the store, all he got out of him before he ran off was ‘zebra skin’.

Ryan’s fairly certain this place should probably be shut down for animal cruelty, or at least firebombed for his sake of mind.

Which, actually, isn’t the worst idea. He slots it away in his mind for later, leaning on the wall by the windows to the street.

They’re both wearing their prizes when they return, that sweater and a pair of boots respectively, grinning demonically as they shove his gift into his hands. They won’t let him leave without putting it on, and won’t let him take it off once it’s on. He swears he’s going to burn the stupid thing later, the fur trim brushing awkwardly against his face. They both seem to think it’s the funniest thing.

He hates how much it makes him want to smile beneath the cloth of the mask.

They mess around for awhile more, the time curling towards evening as they stand at the crossroads between the two sections of street, Michael bitching sporadically about neither theater having anything good showing as they debate whether they want to get food at one of the nicer places along the walk or at one of the fast food places further down, Ryan hoping for the latter, something he can order in a bag and eat when the sun has cast its shadow along the buildings. When it devolves into a debate about reviews on the Burger Shot at the end of the Promenade he wanders off a little, looking in some of the nearby places. It puts him closer to the street, maybe that’s why he sees them first.

Cop cars, two of them, fairly close to the walk with their occupants standing nearby, talking to a patron. Instinctively, both strangely and not, his hand goes to where his holster would be, eyes scanning the officers for vulnerabilities before remembering that quite literally none of them are armed currently, this day meant to just be a lowkey crime-free day.

Fuck.

And there’s those thoughts again, those moral thoughts that appear quickly and are crushed just as fast. Two Fakes, unarmed.

Jeremy and Michael.

It’s not even a contest, no matter how much he might try to lie to himself later that it was. 

Thankfully, he seems to stick out like a sore thumb in this stupid ass coat. The patron points and the officers immediately zero in on him, especially when he pulls down the mask to grin at them, the ever-present scar on his face giving them just a second of pause as they approach.

“Anything I can help you with officers?”

It only takes him a few minutes to piss them off. He’s gotten distressingly good at being smarmy, bad influences and all that. 

There’s still a distinct pang of annoyance through him as they slam him against the hood of one of the cruisers though, his face bouncing a little against the metal. He rolls his eyes, appalled and unsurprised by the rudeness, before scanning the crowd for the others. He catches sight of Jeremy, frowning slightly in amongst the gathering crowd, clearly debating whether or not to make a scene. He doesn’t see Michael.

Considering the whole point of this was distracting the cops Ryan shakes his head just slightly as he’s forcibly straightened, purposefully towering just the slightest bit over the officer for kicks. When he sees he’s caught Jeremy’s eye he flashes him a quick grin, a wink, like this isn’t the first time he’s been arrested, like the Vagabond is all too used to getting arrested for other reasons. Like there’s no way they’ll make a connection between the monster and the dickhead in the stupid coat. It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s true.

He continues to be an ass the whole way to the tiny precinct, just for kicks. It’s only about a block after all, if technically out of jurisdiction.

It’s not his precinct, but he can’t say he’s surprised when, after only about an hour or so of sitting in lockup, he’s transferred to an interrogation room. His fingerprints must have pinged, or maybe someone recognized him from his mugshot, just another cop being dumb, no matter how different he looks. They leave him there for awhile more, unsurprising all things considered, long enough for him to get comfortable before the Captain from his precinct, the one who started this general disaster along its path, bursts through the door. He’s red in the face, pissed, something that, after the fun he was having earlier and how it was ruined, gives Ryan a little happiness.

That should probably be more concerning than it is. 

The Captain slams a folder down onto the table, fixes him with a glare that isn’t even remotely intimidating. He leans back in his seat as much as the handcuffs will allow, smiles as placidly as he can manage. 

“Hello Captain, you’re looking well.”

“Where the fuck have you been Haywood?

No time for niceties then, alright. At the very least he doesn’t have to fake the confusion coloring his features, the quiet frown on his face more in place on the man he was instead of the man he’s slowly becoming. 

“I….working?”

The Captain snorts harshly, shakes his head. Not dissimilar from a bull, Ryan thinks. It’s appropriate, considering how thick-skulled the man apparently is. How this kid ever got to the position he did, he’ll never know. 

“Don’t play coy with me Haywood, you’ve been off the grid for over a _month_. You may not come into the precinct but you are supposed to give regular updates and from what I hear you don’t answer any calls and your texts have only the vaguest kind of information. On top of that, there hasn’t been a single wire transfer and there are starting to be questions about that. Do you even realize that we left you a message two days ago saying if you didn’t come in there would be consequences? What side are you on here?” 

Well, at least he knows what that message was now, as much as that matters beneath the anger bubbling up in his chest. The little moral voice isn’t here now, not against this emotion. Of course he’s angry about the money. Of _fucking_ course _._

He breathes deeply through his nose, centers his thoughts. Thinks about colorful hair and smiling faces and scar-thick knuckles, so easy to want to kiss and protect. Thinks about how worried Jeremy must be, even with his comforting wink. Thinks about everything he can to quell the ever more natural murderous rage bubbling in his chest. Then, when he feels like he can speak again, calmly and evenly without wanting to see how many punches it takes to cave in a skull, he lies. 

“I did get the message sir, but we talked last time I was in about how I shouldn’t come into the precinct unless I have something big, which I don’t, and I didn’t see any reason to compromise my position by risking a trip there. This isn’t a usual sting sir, as much as we would both like it to be. I can’t exactly be interacting regularly with the same set of numbers, and I’m unsure as it stands to how much of my apartment or similar is bugged. Even talking right now is a hazard that could bring this whole thing down without an arrest.”

Jeremy, dressed in one of his shirts, giggling as he discovers that no one lives in the apartments surrounding his, teasing that they can be as loud as they want as he pulls a wad of cash from where Ryan’s hidden it in a cupboard, separating out a twenty to pay for pizza. Jack telling him weaknesses of the crew to help him better understand just how human they are. Geoff smiling at him after a job well done, tired eyes lit with the beginnings of trust and amusement. He plants his feet firmly on the ground, continues. 

“On top of that sir, I haven’t been paid since the last time I wired in money. They keep insisting that they aren’t jobs, they’re ‘bonding experiences’. I can’t disagree with them, they might get suspicious. This isn’t going to be quick and done sir, they’re too suspicious for that. I’ve never been allowed near their base of operations and I’ve only met their leaded twice. They’re all shadowy as hell.” 

Oversized sweaters and too-old band t-shirts, fixed up cars and warm smiles lit by sunsets off sand. Medical help for a complete stranger, bonding in costumes beneath the stars. A tiny cactus with a crown the color of sun-drenched clouds. Too human, too kind. 

The Captain stares at him, searching for a lie, something he’s gotten far too good at hiding, a look caught in the corners of his jaw, in the depths of his eyes, like he’s looking at something unknown, some new unexpected quality, the man he hired for this disappearing beneath scars and smiles. Then he flips open the folder, shoves it for him to see. 

There are photos inside, mostly low-quality phone shots, stills from blurry video without any chance of focusing. Some are security footage. He recognizes a few of them, the Poppies with him and Jeremy close behind, Jeremy already unslinging his rifle to take out the cameras of the Burger Shot, another of the Roosevelt peeling away from a backlight of fire, Ryan hanging halfway out of it, trying to cram himself into the seat as they flee. In the still you can’t tell that he’s laughing, too blurry to make out the stupid cat ears perched atop his head. A few photos are just of the Fakes, some are from yesterday, Jeremy and the Brit on bikes, helmeted, images of Geoff’s pink Elegy, Jack’s Kuruma, though neither insides are visible.

One image is just a photo of an alley, too dark and hazy from a downpour to make out much other than two figures, a skull mask clutches barely visible in the hand of one. It looks like he might be threatening the one trapped between him and the wall, what looks like his other hand on the wall beside the other’s head. He knows better. He knows precisely what it is. 

A quick glance at the Captain reveals that he does not. He’s focused more on the recent photos than the older ones, which he proves when Ryan finally looks all the way up, gesturing to the images of the cars. 

“What do you have to say about this then?” 

None of the photos have proof that he was there. Which means either the dashcams of the cars that followed them under the bridge either weren’t on or were too damaged to get anything worthwhile. No cameras under the overpass either. A photo of him hanging out of the Elegy is bound to appear eventually, if anyone other than the helicopters he blew up thought it good to record the Fakes on the highway, but nothing right now. Which makes it easy to fix the Captain with a lifted eyebrow, pushing as palpable a sense of confusion as he can.

“When were these taken?”

“Yesterday. The Fakes blew up an armored truck and made off with everything inside.” 

“Oh.” 

Now the Captain is staring at him, watching as he reaches out to touch the photos, put on a show. He just hopes it’s believable. With his head angled, he looks to see which of the other photos were most recent past this one. It’s the one in the alley. He reaches over, touches that one.

“This was the last I interacted with the Fakes. I was trying to intimidate him and I guess they put me on probation as a result. I had no idea there was another heist happening.”

Jeremy’s lips, chapped and curled into a playful smile as he drags him into the alley. There’s blood on both of them, the rain starting to drench their clothes. Jeremy had to go up into his toes to kiss him properly, the both of them laughing in the dark. He keeps his face straight as his mind wanders to the memory. They’d both thought the other would get sick after that, were happy when they didn’t.

The Captain fixes him with a look but he gives no sign that he thinks Ryan is lying. Because of that, Ryan pushes his luck, curious.

“Up until I was brought in I was trying to stay off the grid, wait for them to contact me. It’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have any info to give. I assume that something about me pinging the system is what brought you in particular here sir but I wasn’t doing anything in particular to warrant arresting other than looking like this.” 

He gestures to his outfit, not bothering to explain a lick of it, just because. The Captain huffs, sits heavy in the chair across from him, more than aware there’s not a single thing he can call the man before him on. 

“Anonymous tip came in about a disturbance on the Promenade and those officers happened to be the closest. Couple of the folks they talked to pointed you out. Apparently you did a very good job annoying the officers for them to decide to take you in, so don’t lie to me and say you were doing nothing. Sure you were alone there? Sounded like a big complaint.” 

The snappish part of his brain wants to respond with _no sir, just the Fake I’ve been fucking and the one I’ve bonded over almost dying with_ , but he knows better than to say that aloud. Instead he shakes his head, looks a little frustrated. 

“No sir, I was just trying to follow a lead on one of the shop owners and I guess someone didn’t appreciate me bringing down the property value. All I can ask for is that all this gets the Fakes eyes back on me, which means I probably shouldn’t be in a cell when that happens.”

His point is clear. The Captain sighs, collects the photos back into the folder as he stands.

“You’re going to stay in lockup here for a few days Haywood, time to think on how this operation is going and understand that first and foremost, you belong to this precinct. You talk to Jensen or Dunkleman about your update issues, don’t leave it until something like this happens again.”

The urge to talk back is huge but he knows better, nodding.

“Yessir.”

The Captain leaves. Ryan fumes in his seat, quiet and infuriated, casting a devil’s grin as the door opens and reveals a young officer, probably just into his blues, who hesitates when he sees those teeth. 

“You here to take me to lockup kid?”

The kid collects himself, nods, eyes zeroed in on that arcing scar. Ryan holds up his handcuffed hands.

“Come on then, I won’t bite.” 

At least, not yet. 


	21. Chapter 21

They put him in a private cell in the back after the first night in general lockup. It may or may not be because one of the other idiots, drunk and wavering, tried to start a fight and made a close acquaintance with the concrete because of it. He also may or may not have taken a little too much glee in the fear that flashed in the man’s eyes when he growled low and dangerous in his ear if he knew what happened to the last person who pissed off the Vagabond.

No one will believe him that he met the skull-faced monster while intoxicated in an upper city precinct, surrounded by moneyed folks just waiting for their bail. Sounds like something a crazy person would say, or someone trying to make up a story for credit. 

Maybe he should be nicer to the precinct, he thinks. It’s not tiny like he calls it, even if he’s fairly certain that those upper two floors are just for show and probably just exist for storage and/or sex. Doesn’t matter that from what he’s seen, their usual clientele is apparently just coked out trophy wives and drunken execs. At the end of it, their cell beds are comfy and the food is surprisingly decent, not to mention they let him keep most of his stuff, the stupid coat working fantastically as a blanket, the cloth hung loosely around his neck a solid comfort despite it all. 

He shouldn’t be mean, it’s not like he’s exactly hard up when his senses tune back in late the next night, a couple young guys in blue leading a handful of rowdy idiots into the lockup down the hall, their talk easy to hear even over the slight persistent ringing in his ears, mostly-healed damage aggravated by shouting rich people. They think he’s asleep, after all.

“Who’s the guy down at five? Normally move people out after a couple hours.”

“Dunno, he’s fuckin’ scary though. Probably a bodyguard or some shit. No bail out on him, think he’s just being held for a few days or something like that. Put a dent in one of the drunks.”

“Betcha Chief’s making a point to somebody, rich kid maybe. ‘See how well you do without your muscle’, y’know? Protection ain’t cheap and cops do it best.”

Ah corruption, how he totally fucking hasn’t missed that. Nice to know it’s so prevalent here, if they talk about it this openly. Part of him is curious if anyone really knows why he’s locked up, or if his Captain just told them to. He rolls over, goes back to sleep, dreams about blood on concrete and razor sharp steel, shredded blues and bent badges with colors like the oncoming dawn a beacon overhead, laughter, warmth, crooked smiles and enticing hands drawing him in like a vice. When he wakes up again late in the morning he takes a few deep breaths and rolls onto his side, works himself down from the precipice. Certain things should never be done in a police station, no matter how he feels. When he finally feels comfortable enough to sit up, to think about the flashes already fading from his mind, he realizes he misses Jeremy, misses his beautiful mismatched energy, even if it’s only been a few days locked away from him.

He misses all of them, if he’s being honest.

He shakes his head, sighs to himself as he debates the pros and cons of working out to pass the time. Not much to do when all there is to do is think and stare at concrete run through with steel, and he is definitely not going to be thinking about what the Captain said to him, not going to let himself slip back into the brain of a cop, not for that asshole, not here, not now. 

Just when did he get so spiteful, he wonders. 

He folds the coat with a sigh, rolls up his sleeves. Might as well do _something_ , and if that means working out, so be it. Better than all the sitting around he did yesterday at the least. 

It’s only a few hours later that there’s actual noise again, the sound of clanging doors and talking. He ignores it, worn out after a few hours of purposefully overexerting himself and frankly done with the whole situation he’s in, choosing instead to lean back against the cool concrete and breathe. He ignores the talking down by lockup, the body that walks up to his cell, looks in, only catching the briefest hint of silken blue and shining metal before he shuts his eyes, blocks out any rich assholes coming for a look at the guy alone in a cell. A nap is tempting.

The body moves away, the sound of talking picks up again. More doors. Then, much closer, the sound of metal on metal, clinking keys. He opens his eyes, stares down the officer standing outside his cell. Same kid who brought him out of the interrogation room, interesting. He hesitates when Ryan grins at him, the key ring in his hand shaking the slightest bit. 

“You need something?” 

It’s a little fascinating to watch the kid fish-mouth at him for a few seconds. He never used to have this effect on people. Then the kid steels himself, finds the right key. 

“You have a good samaritan. Paid his buddy’s bail and paid yours too.”

Ryan hums as he stands to his full height, scooping up the coat and sliding the rave mask up over his nose.

“Didn’t realize I had a bail.” 

The door clanks open. 

“Guess you did.”

Better not to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially because his dearest darling Captain almost certainly wanted him in there a few more days. The officer keeps his distance as he leads him to retrieve the few things he wasn’t allowed to keep, phone and keys and a loose handful of low-level bills, no ID. Nothing he doesn’t normally have on him when out with the Fakes.

Because he’s a liar. 

An increasingly good one at that. 

They leave him outside the precinct. He huffs, looks around. His phone is dead after somewhere close to thirty-six hours locked away, he wasn’t the one who drove to the Promenade, and he doesn’t exactly live close by. 

Motherfucker. 

Ryan starts down the sidewalk, trying to think of where the nearest bus stop is. He glances at some of the cars he walks past, thinking that those might work too, if he found one with its keys. Jumpstarting is definitely something he needs to learn, sooner rather than later if he has a preference. Maybe he should ask one of the crew, he knows at least a few of them know how to do it. Practice makes perfect and all. 

He’s so caught up in his thoughts he doesn’t even notice the slamming of a car door at first, the pounding of feet against pavement. It’s only when his ever-growing instinctual brain kicks into gear and forces him to spin to see who is approaching does he realize he heard something, and even then it’s too late to do anything but catch the body that slams full-force into him, nearly taking him off his feet. For a second he panics, nerves going into overdrive, but then his attacker does nothing but wrap tightly around him, breathing hard against his chest, and he realizes he knows this form all too well. 

Jeremy trembles against him, completely ignorant of their surroundings as he pulls back enough to tug the mask down and plant a kiss on him, desperate and heady, hands shaking as they rest on his face. Ryan, utterly stunned and useless, can do nothing but stand there, his own resting gently on his lover’s hips. 

Then Jeremy separates, hold dropping to his wrist as he drags him towards a nondescript car parked across the road, mouth already moving far faster than Ryan can really process.

“Fuck, sorry, I was just…. _fuck_. We were standing there and then you _weren’t_ and then there were cops and you were getting arrested and I thought they were going to somehow recognize you and you’d get taken away or killed or worse and I thought maybe if I sat out here I’d see them before they took you away but then you just fucking walked by and I thought you were fucking dead and I just...oh god.” 

He’s hyperventilating, Ryan realizes. That kicks his brain into gear more than anything, making sure they’re safely across before cupping Jeremy’s face this time, forcing him to look straight at him. 

“Jer, breathe, breathe for me. C’mon, in and out, that’s it. I’m fine, I swear. I got into a fight in lockup and they held me for a bit to make a point. No one recognized me. It’s fine. Have you been out here since I got arrested?” 

Jeremy’s breath settles, his eyes glancing back towards the car, where Ryan can see a small pile of cans and wrappers in the backseat, alongside a blanket and a handful of other things. Despite how annoying the last day or so has been, he feels his heart swell. Jeremy was _worried_ , about _him_. Fuck. 

_Fuck._

There’s color dusting Jeremy’s cheeks beneath the stubble, carefully extricating himself from Ryan’s hands now that he’s calmed. He takes a step back, makes distance that Ryan doesn’t want, not now.

“Sorry...Sorry. Shouldn’t have kissed you out here. You probably want to get home, right?” 

“It’s fine. I promise. And yes, please.”

The look Jeremy gives him says so much, and so little at the same time. He smiles despite his clear worry when they both slip into the car, when Ryan takes his hand, so terribly in need of human contact that he never used to care for. He wonders where Jeremy’s usual car is.

It’s a quiet ride. 

Jeremy hesitates at an intersection, glances to him. Ryan knows what he wants almost instantly, is tempted by it as well. The penthouse, safe behind inch-thick glass and blood-hungry friends. A place with warmth and soft beds and every creature comfort he could want. 

But it’s not what he wants right now. He wants quiet, a shower, clean clothes and a place to a rest with the warm body he adores pressed up against him. They’ll go to the Penthouse soon, but right now, no. In that one look, Jeremy understands. He stays close to his side as they ride the elevator to his apartment, like he’s afraid that if he moves too far, he’ll lose Ryan all over again. Even inside he stays close. Ryan lets him. 

He orders food while Ryan showers, only slips under the spray with him when he can find nothing else to do. They stay there, skin on skin in quiet comfort, just resting, holding close, only stepping out when the water goes cold, when the buzz of the door lock becomes too insistent to ignore.

It is only after food and clean clothes, a few hours of quiet comfort that ended with Jeremy falling asleep with Ryan’s arm stuck completely beneath him that he lets himself stop, lets himself think. He’s tired, worn, wants nothing more than to wrap himself tighter around the body trapping him, but it’s a necessity now that he’s calmed from his spite.

It’s harder now, harder to think about everything with the mind of a cop, harder to let himself slip back into that empty place, but he needs to, no matter the guilty weight it sets in his gut.

James needs to think.

Needs to think about his job, the one that he took to make the streets a better place. The role he wanted, the start of a flood that would clean up the city he loved. The life he lived, clean and guilt-free. All those things he thought he had. 

All those things that might not have been true.

Had he really wanted those things? Does he still?

Did he really ever want to be a cop, or was it just his response to the sight of those dying precincts, that dark want festering in his chest that wanted more than anything to see rot looked like from the inside? Did he really want to clean up the streets, or was that just what it seemed like people wanted him to do? Did he stay because he could be good, or did he stay because Los Santos called to him more than anything in the world, sang to that shadow in his soul? Was he ever really happy with the life he’d lived?

Well, at the very least he knows the answer to that one, even if it makes him hurt deep inside. 

Jeremy rolls over, snoring slightly. James stares at his face, the way his laugh-lines have left marks as permanent as scars, the nature of his scruff hiding evidence of busted lips and mis-healed wounds. He looks softened in his sleep, even more so than his normal nature. He looks beautiful, something he wants nothing more than to keep close. It’s that same thought he had not so long ago, in the light of the sunrise with chaos in his heart and warmth on his mind.

Could he give up Jeremy when he turns them all in? Does he have to? Could he, honest and true, turn any of them in when the day comes?

He knows he’s lying to himself. He could turn them all in now, be done with it. Six months he’s been with them. He knows their faces, knows where they live, has seen with his own eyes the crimes they’ve caused. The powers that be would accept any of that, make their own evidence if need be. If he really tried he could get DNA evidence, could get photo proof. It could all be over tomorrow, if he wishes.

If he wanted to, he could walk back into the precinct tomorrow, go back to all he used to do, his old life, quiet and empty.

He could leave them all behind, leave Jeremy with his endless affection, Michael with their hard-won friendship, Jack with his casual trust and Geoff with his burgeoning faith. The Brit, Gav, full of strange looks and insightful words. 

He huffs darkly, carefully shifts his arm to bring Jeremy the slightest bit closer.

James, Ryan; Ryan, James. Different lives cut through with a blood-drenched blade, sewn together with things he could never hope to say. It’s all going to kill him one day. 

He is happy like this, happy here, happier than he ever thought he could be. He has friends, warmth, maybe more. He has things he never thought he needed but people are dying, the world is crumbling beneath his feet, and he could care less each time. Eventually they’ll get tired of waiting, eventually they’ll take this paint-streaked lie of an existence away from him, leave him empty and alone in the dust. All he has are hollow hopes, ill-thought dreams.

Maybe if keeps lying, keeps pretending, maybe he could delay the date.

Maybe if he delays he could stop being afraid, could tell them, set them free at the cost of his soul.

Maybe he could make this right, in his own way.

Jeremy is awake, staring at him in concern, eyes like oil slick in the shadows of the night, shining and dark. He doesn’t know how long he’s been watching. Long enough, probably. Time-rough hands reach up, brush away the hair that’s fallen in his eyes.

“Ry? Hey, hey stop thinking. You’re okay, you’re here. I’m here. You said it was okay. It’ll be okay. Don’t get stuck in your head. I’m here, I’ll always be here.”

He wants to laugh, bitter and cold. If he only knew. He would hate him. 

They would all hate him if he told them.

He’s such a coward. 

Those hands trail back into his hair, a gentle tug pulling him from his thoughts, a kiss drowning everything else away. It’s not domineering, not anything but sweet and worried, but he feels his brain click back anyways, melting into the strong warmth surrounding him. Jeremy talks nonsense, fills his head with cotton-laced words. Part of him hates how deeply Jeremy has wormed between his bones, the rest fears for the day that will no longer be. When he finally falls asleep, lulled by Jeremy’s voice, he dreams of cold steel chains and empty homes, betrayal in the eyes of those he loves, faceless and unending. 

He wakes up with those hands still gently tangled in his hair, petting and soothing, braids appearing and disappearing in time with the shifts of the warm body at his back, the calloused fingertips that brush past his ear. He sighs, leans back into the warmth, lets the comfort drag him free of the shadows of his mind. The braids stop, the hands shifting so only one remains, carding gently as the other wraps over his hip, holds him close. He can tell Jeremy has things he wants to say, worried things, things that if said aloud could shine a light on his cockroach soul, reveal him for the fraud he is. But he doesn’t say those things, thinks he understands in the worst kind of way. He nuzzles his neck instead, presses a loose kiss to a fading mark, protective without word. When he speaks it’s falsely light, a paper-thin sheet to cover the monsters beneath.

“Maybe we should dye your hair, make you stand out less.”

Ryan feels a laugh bubble, confused and amused despite himself in equal measure.

“I’m blond Jer, how would I stand out _less_ with dyed hair? Not to mention, it’d be the same with or without the mask. Not to mention all this.”

He gestures loosely to his face, to the scar that marrs his features. Jeremy’s head moves to press against his shoulder blades, a weak and empty groan, even as he can feel the smile against his skin.

“Ry, let me have this. Let me make excuses. I wanna dye your hair. We can dip dye it, cut it if you don’t like it. You know you want to.”

He laughs, feels the mood shift a little brighter, a little closer to that which they had only a few days before. Jeremy lets go of his hair, worms that hand hand underneath him, wraps his hold a little tighter. Ryan hums, stretches against him.

It’s nice not to think, just for a little while.


End file.
